


Minds

by NezumiPi



Series: Bodies and Minds [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Holy Shit What Happened to Sherlock, Identity, M/M, Post-Reichbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NezumiPi/pseuds/NezumiPi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Bodies".  Post-Reichenbach.  Molly Hooper visits a still-grieving John Watson with the news that Sherlock is alive, but he's disappeared.  John, Lestrade, and Mycroft travel to America in search of him, but what they find is not what they expected.  Includes no fewer than 6 characters named John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Car radios?  God, you're old.

**This is the sequel to** **Bodies** **and I recommend you read that first. Both occur post-Reichenbach and contain spoilers up until there.**

* * *

John knew it wasn't normal to still feel this way, so many months after. He hadn't grieved like this when either of his parents had died. He had mourned them of course, but not this sick dreariness that seemed to drag on forever.

Other people were getting back to their lives. John saw a national political scandal averted in a way that bore all the marks of Mycroft's handiwork. Mrs. Hudson was looking for new tenants, albeit half-heartedly. Greg Lestrade had lost more than John in some ways – he had lost his career at the same time they lost Sherlock – but he was picking things back up, too. He had taken a job tending bar at a little local club. John thought that was a little humiliating, a little beneath a detective inspector of Scotland Yard, but Greg just smiled and said that the 'brooding' look was in. "If I wear a black turtleneck and periodically stare off into the distance, I make good money on tips."

John could almost laugh at the joke. Almost.

His name was called. He grabbed his cane and he limped into his physician's office.

"I was able to get in touch with your counselor." Dr. Hunt absently tapped the orange consent form John had signed last week. "And she certainly agrees that you're having trouble with sleep."

"I was able to diagnose that one myself, oddly enough."

"John, you know how I feel about benzodiazepines. We've discussed it before. They're dangerous medicines, especially for someone with your genetic background. You know there are a lot of shared genetic influences between propensity for alcohol addiction and for addiction to sedative-hypnotics."

"I just want to sleep. I'm exhausted."

"I would much rather start you on a trial of antidepressants." Hunt managed to not be condescending when he said this. One of the reasons John liked him.

"I'm not depressed. I'm- I feel exactly how I'm supposed to feel. How am I supposed to feel? I watched my best friend commit suicide." John stopped, realizing that this was the first time he had actually spoken aloud the word 'suicide' in relation to Sherlock's death.

"You and I both know it's not about what you're supposed to feel. It's about managing your life in the real world. A few days ago, an elderly man came in here for a refill on his antidepressant prescription, just like he does every three months. His wife has Alzheimers. He cares for her at home because that's what he wants to do and that's what he thinks she wants, but the situation is depressing. He says if he didn't have the medicine, he might have to put her in a home and he couldn't forgive himself for that. So he takes the pills. Do you see anything wrong with that?"

"How about amitriptyline?" asked John. "It's an antidepressant with sedative properties."

"I'd rather start you on an SSRI. Or SNRI if you prefer."

"You've been talking to my therapist."

"That's right."

"She thinks I'm suicidal? Because I'm not."

"That's a question you'd have to ask her. I certainly think that you've lost someone very dear to you in a particularly terrible way."

"I just want to be able to sleep. Write the scrip for just a few pills at a time if it keeps your liability insurance low." And damned if that didn't sound more cynical and miserable than John had intended.

"I'm glad you're talking to a therapist," said Dr. Hunt. "I'll make you a deal. I'm going to write you a prescription for an SNRI. They act a bit faster than the older models. You try it for a month and if you still can't sleep, we'll revisit benzos and I'll consider prescribing them."

"You know I could just go to a walk-in clinic with a lazy doctor and get the benzo prescription today."

"But you didn't go to a walk-in clinic. You came to me and I'm going to write the prescription that I think is best for your health."

John looked at the prescription paper for almost a minute. "Does this act on dopamine?"

"Minimally. Why?"

"There's been times when I've…thought I've seen him. In a crowd, on the tube. Or I hear a voice that sounds like his and I think it's him for just a moment. I don't think it's a hallucination, not really, just wishful thinking, I suppose."

"I agree, you're not hallucinating. There's nothing wrong with wishful thinking."

* * *

But there _was_ something wrong with wishful thinking. John spent the afternoon riding the tubes back and forth, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock. He finally limped back above ground almost two hours later. He couldn't get a signal on the Underground, so his phone started receiving messages as he ascended the stairs. Harry knew had a doctor's appointment and had sent a 'thinking of you' text. (Since the funeral, she had really been making an effort to be supportive, even if her efforts were more annoying than helpful.) And a message from Greg, inviting him over for pizza and beer at his flat. John didn't feel like it, because he didn't feel like doing anything, but he knew that Greg was expecting to hear a final ruling on his status at Scotland Yard any day now. Maybe Lestrade was looking for a pal.

John turned around and began slowly making his way back down the steps. Greg's flat was only two stops north of here.

They absently debated the purpose of the little plastic table in the middle of the pizza and John tried not to count to the number of beer cans in Greg's recycling bin.

"I'm…I'm really not trying to bust your balls here, and I know people used to tease you about it, but I guess no one ever really knew what to think. Were you and he, um, boyfriends?"

"A lot of people have asked me that since he-" John skipped the verb, "not as teasing either, and I want to scream at them, why does it matter? Like I can't be this sad if we were only friends? Like sex had to be part of the mix to justify my feeling this way."

"Nobody's saying that. Well, I'm not saying that anyway. Just honestly curious because most people find him a bit difficult, and you've been so loyal."

"It's weird, though. I've been thinking about it. I really don't feel that way for men. I've never thought of myself that way, but after a few months of Sherlock, I tried to reconsider it and – as he would say – test the hypothesis. And you know what? I'm still pretty damn sure that I'm not gay. But I loved Sherlock Holmes. I used to be able to keep a girlfriend for more than just a few bloody weeks, but after I met him, whoever the girl was, she would get the feeling that he was more important to me than she was, and she'd be right. Nobody is as interesting as him. Nobody draws me in the way he does. And I just don't know how to have a life without him in it. So was I in love with him? I have no fucking clue."

Greg was usually pretty competent when it came to social situations, but he wasn't sure at all what to say here. So John was in love with Sherlock, in love in a way that precluded dating anyone else, but without any kind of sexual interest, at least none that John would admit. Maybe he should say something reassuring? Like, there's no need to put labels on things, but seeing as Greg started the conversation by trying to put a label on things, he couldn't imagine it sounding sincere. Other possible responses quickly formed and were just as quickly discarded. Nothing sounded right in his head.

On impulse, Lestrade blurted out, "I did six months in Felton Prison."

"What?"

"I'd appreciate if that didn't get around, mind you. Though I suppose it might not matter anymore."

"Do you mind if I ask what for?"

"Oh, something stupid. I was nineteen. A bloke shorted me on a bet and I may have gone out to his car and, uh," Lestrade looked down and mumbled into his fist sheepishly, "slashed the tires and busted the windows."

John chuckled softly. "Six months seems long for property destruction, but I guess I don't really know the legal system that well."

"I had juvenile priors. Petty stuff, really. While you were playing rugby, I was stealing car radios. I was a right punk."

"I can't picture you breaking into cars."

"I stole a bike once."

"Bike as in bicycle?"

"Bike as in about worth at least six thousand pounds. I rode it for about two months before I wrecked it. Never got caught." Lestrade smiled nostalgically. "Got myself straightened out eventually, obviously. Cecelia always used to say that former criminals make the best coppers, just like people who had problems in school always make the best teachers."

"What made you turn around?" John was interested despite himself. It was good to think about something besides Sherlock for a change.

"Oh, it's not a very exciting story. I ran with these three other blokes: two brothers named Miles and Avery, and this posh rich kid named Maurice who was really just in it to piss off his parents. Avery was off his head; he ended up serving time for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon – in for at least a decade – so Miles decided he had better shape up and behave himself. Which left just me and Maurice. Him and me had a bit of a falling out and-"

"Over what?"

"Uh, well," Lestrade reached around behind his head to scratch the opposite side of his neck. "It seems that Maurice had a sort of a crush on me and I might not have let him down very easy. I felt bad about it years later; I'm a more enlightened man these days. Wrote him a letter and everything. But anyway, with no Maurice, it was just me, and it turns out getting blitzed and causing trouble isn't nearly as much fun without an audience."

"So you figured, why not join the police?"

"That's about right. Told you it wasn't exciting. But I don't like people there knowing about it. It's not exactly state secrets, but it's not any of their business."

"Of course," John nodded.

"Oh, I guess that was my point: you don't have to feel so awkward about it. I know something about you and you know something about me. We each got something on the other one. I was hooked on trouble, Sherlock was hooked on coke, and you was hooked on Sherlock. Fair's fair."

John noticed that the longer Lestrade was out of Scotland Yard, the stronger his accent and the worse his grammar became. That was the sort of thing Sherlock would have noticed.

* * *

John didn't make it back to his own flat until nearly midnight, which he supposed qualified as staying out late now that he was no longer having weekly adventures with Sherlock. His leg was hurting a bit less and he was hoping that he would be able to get some sleep.

He stepped off the elevator, and there was Molly Hooper sitting on the floor outside his door. She stood up when she saw him.

"John," she said, "I, I need to talk to you. It's – oh, I'd be furious if I were you, I know, but I had to. And now I need your help. He's missing."

"Molly, come inside. What's wrong? Who's missing?"

She stared at him a moment, eyes wide before looking away. "He's not dead. I mean, he wasn't dead. I helped him. But now, now he's gone missing and I need your help."

" _Who?_ " John was trying not to yell at her, but he just couldn't have this sort of hope. He just couldn't.

"Sherlock!"


	2. Make Me

"Molly," breathed John, suddenly hoarse and raspy, "please. You have to, you can't just-" He exhaled slowly. "You can't give me that hope if it's not real. I can't lose him again."

Molly squeezed her eyes shut, trying to put her thoughts in order. "I can tell you everything I know. He knew he would have to die, so he planned to fake his death. I helped."

"What do you mean, he knew he had to die?" Even as he asked the question, John could picture Sherlock right after their encounter with 'Richard Brook', his sudden insistence that he knew how the story would end.

"He was sure of it, that Moriarty would require it, even if he didn't know how. He said Moriarty was obsessed with him as his only intellectual equal and that either a win or a loss would be disappointing for Moriarty because the game would be over, so it would have to be over completely."

"When did he tell you all this?"

"Before he went up to the roof. He asked for my help to fake his death."

"It wasn't fake!" cried John, now desperate. "I saw it. I saw him jump. I saw him fall. I saw him land."

"I don't know all the details of how he did it," said Molly, a slight pleading tone in her voice, "but I helped switch the bodies and fake his death certificate. He said, he said then that Moriarty had threatened his friends, that he had snipers trained on you and DI Lestrade and his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, snipers that would kill you if he didn't jump. He said it was good that you saw, because you would only be safe if you really believed that he was dead."

"Good that I saw? Good that I saw him fall to his death! Good that I saw his skull crushed by the impact, the blood everywhere!" Someone was yelling in John's voice.

Molly shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. "I don't think he thought about that. He just wanted to make sure you were safe."

"Why didn't he come back? Moriarty's dead. If Sherlock's alive, why has he stayed away?"

"Because he said he had to take apart Moriarty's organization, to make sure that there isn't anyone loyal there to finish the job. I've been in touch with him. We have drop points on the internet. Sometimes a letter just shows up in my apartment. Not through the post, it's just there. He said he's taken out the sniper who was going to kill DI Lestrade and the one who was going to kill Mrs. Hudson, but your sniper was somebody special, I guess, somebody harder to k-…to kill. Sherlock was chasing him, followed him to America, but then he stopped sending messages or responding to mine."

"When was this?"

"The last message he sent was months ago. But he told me he might not be able to contact me that often, so he set up a system that would notify me if he wasn't signing into his account for forty-five days or more. I just received the notification today."

"You just received it today," echoed John absently. He sunk down into a chair, his muscles no longer feeling strong enough to bear his own weight. "This can't be." He punched his leg, hard, in hope that the pain would orient him, would wake him from this dream.

"I'm so sorry," said Molly. "I promised him I wouldn't tell. He was convinced it was for your safety."

"So Sherlock didn't commit suicide," said John, summarizing and trying to get a handle on the situation. "He faked his death to satisfy Moriarty, even though I watched him die and watched them bury him and put flowers on his grave to attract bees." John added parenthetically, "He loved bees, did you know that? Thought they were amazing." He sighed, then burst into a yell. "And you're telling me it was all fake and you knew all along!"

Molly nodded. She was very close to tears.

John tried to calm himself. Yelling at Molly wouldn't help anyone. "Who else knew about this?"

"Some homeless people he knew, they helped also, but I don't think they knew the whole plan. And I don't know who they are or how to contact them. And I don't think anyone else."

"His brother?"

She shook her head and shrugged sadly. "I didn't know he had a brother."

John sighed again and rubbed the muscles in his leg. He shouldn't have hit it; now it was aching worse than ever. He pulled out his little notebook; he still carried it with him these days. "Okay, tell me again from the start, with every detail you can remember."

* * *

When Molly left, John's first move was to call Greg Lestrade. Well, no. His first move was to sink to the floor and weep with great wracking sobs for what felt like ages but was really only ten minutes. He was a soldier: he wasn't above crying, but he certainly wasn't going to it for an audience and he certainly wasn't going to do it for long, not when there was a job to be done.

Then he called Lestrade.

He didn't tell him the whole story over the phone, but arranged a meeting in a particular corner of a particular alley – Sherlock had taken delight in finding holes in his brother's monitoring network and they had used them on occasion. Lestrade must have been bored with his new life as a bartender or concerned for John's mental health, because he agreed to the admittedly bizarre request without question.

John gave the drunk who normally inhabited the alleyway a gift card to an all-night diner in exchange for some privacy. It was an old compromise he had reached with Sherlock; John didn't like giving them cash to feed their addictions.

"Why are we meeting here?" asked Lestrade, "What's going on?"

"I don't want Mycroft overhearing," said John, aware that this sounded strange and paranoid, but confident that Lestrade had some sense of the Mycroft's unsettling reach.

"Overhearing what?"

John took a breath to anchor himself, then launched into the clearest summary he could of Molly's tale. It wasn't quite as difficult to say it as it was to hear it from Molly. Maybe because it was like being on a case and that steadied him, it always did.

Greg took the news more calmly than John had. "God, he's clever. Always ten steps ahead of everyone. Should've known that Moriarty git couldn't beat him."

"I'm going to America to look for him. Moriarty's people could have him."

"Well, I certainly want to help. It's not like I have anything better to do."

"We have to tell Mrs. Hudson."

"I'll bet Mycroft's people can protect her from a distance. And you said her sniper is already dead."

"I meant, she should know that he's not dead."

"Maybe, yeah, but, what if we get to the bottom of this and we find out that he died chasing after Moriarty's people? You know her better than I do, whether she'd want to get her hopes up."

"God, what if he is dead? What if we end up right back where we started?" John swallowed deeply. The prospect was unthinkable.

"I don't know about that," said Greg. "You might think it differently, but to me, it's a big change from, you know, what we thought was probably going through his head when he jumped, that he committed suicide all miserable and lonely. Instead, he died knowing he had three friends he was trying to protect. I know how I'd rather go."

John suddenly felt quite guilty even though he couldn't put a finger on why.

"I take it from us meeting here that you haven't talked to his brother yet."

"And I don't intend to," said John, voice hard and cruel.

"You think his brother's involved?"

John shook his head. "I don't know, but I think if I never see that man again, it'll be too soon."

"All right, that's all well and good, but we're going to be a lot slower without his help. For one, my passport's expired. For two, I don't know what your bank account looks like these days, but it'll take me a few days to even scrounge up the money for a plane ticket across the pond." Lestrade held his hands up in a 'search me' gesture. "I mean, we can't bring weapons with us into the US, so if we need them, we'll have to get them once we arrive, and that could take days, even assuming we're on board with violating a whole slew of international laws."

John scratched the side of his face. Even though he knew Greg was right, he couldn't help but hesitate.

"I don't like him either," said Lestrade, placatingly. "He gives me the creeps, with that weird grin, and when he talks, it's like he's made of petrol. Don't know if that makes any sense. I'm just saying from a practical standpoint, I don't see how we can manage without someone like him."

"You're right," said John softly. He absently ran his hand over the outline of the gun at his waist, before he pulled out his mobile and dialed.

"You've got his brother's number?"

"No, but I've got yours," he said, and sure enough, Lestrade's mobile began to ring. "Pick up." Once Lestrade hit _Send_ , John announced into the speaker. "I know you can hear this, Mycroft. It's about Sherlock. Meet us at the tube station one block north. Don't bring Anthea. Don't try anything." He hung up, then held his hand out to Lestrade. "Give me the pin to my gun."

* * *

"Your leg looks like it's hurting you," observed Greg.

"You want to know the weird thing? It didn't start hurting until _after_ the funeral." John scanned the tube station for a second time. "For all I know it's in my mind, it still bloody aches."

"You're going to keep your head when the brother gets here, right?"

"I'm a soldier. I can put my personal feelings aside."

"Just checking. I don't need another goddamn inquiry."

"The Yard's not pressing charges against you, are they? They can't. It's preposterous."

"They still might. It's not decided." Lestrade shrugged. "It's all right. I've got people on my side. Cecelia even offered to hold off on signing the final papers for the divorce. You know, so they can't make her testify against me. I don't think it'll come to that, but I'll take it as a kindness from her." He put on his best it's-fine-it's-all-fine grin and leaned against the wall.

They heard Mycroft before they saw him, an arrhythmic three-footed gait formed between himself and his umbrella. He was alone, or at least appeared that way. He had gained weight since John had seen him last. His lips were thin and tight.

"You wanted to speak to me about Sherlock," said Mycroft.

"How much of this did you know?" asked John, accusatory. Lestrade stepped to the right so that he was between them, ready to intervene if there was a problem, but held his tongue.

"You will have to be much more specific."

"This business with the snipers, and the fake death certificate, and disappearing off to America and-"

"Fake," Mycroft breathed, "death certificate." His shoulders dropped down and forward, even if his posture remained perfectly straight. "Whose fake death certificate?"

John stabbed his finger forward. "Don't play games. Sherlock's death certificate! Sherlock's faked death!"

There was a flicker of emotion on Mycroft's face, too quick to be identified, but too sharp to be ignored. "I knew nothing of this, but I have never denied my brother's cleverness. You doubt, apparently, that he could outwit me?"

"Bullshit!" yelled John, and Lestrade saw his cue to lean forward before they came to blows. (He was momentarily taken by the irreverent thought that, between the umbrella and the height difference, a fistfight between John and Mycroft would actually be pretty funny to watch.)

In between John Watson's angry, ragged breathing and Mycroft Holmes' dispassionate, piercing gaze, Greg recounted the story as best he could. "So we're going to America to look for him," he concluded, "and we need your help with the logistics, tickets and passports and such."

"Of course," said Mycroft. He pulled out his mobile and tapped at it for a moment. "I will make arrangements for both real and false identities. I'll meet you at the airport, outside of the D-terminal security checkpoint in six-and-a-half hours."

"Oh no, you're not coming," said John, adding in a feeble and suspicious tone, "I thought you hated legwork."

"My brother was dead." Mycroft turned to him, the barest hint of emotion in his eyes. "And now he's alive. Of course I'm coming."

* * *

Here is what Mycroft does when he returns home that night:

He sits alone at a long table and recalls the face of James Moriarty, the shape of his movements, the outline of his words.

He opens an old photo album and there is Sherlock, four years of age, wearing an eyepatch and a pirate's hat, and wielding a cardboard sword. Sherlock is baring his teeth, playing at being fierce. He turns the page and there is the family: Mummy, father, Sherlock and himself. None of them are touching. None of them are smiling.

He closes the photo album and begins thinking up a list of all the things they will need.

Here is what Greg does when he returns home that night:

He pulls a piece of pizza out of the refrigerator and eats it cold.

He has this odd fear that he won't make it back from America, so he writes a note to Cecelia wishing her the best in life but then he accidentally ends it with _you whore_ so he burns it in the sink.

He's about to open a beer when it hits him why none of this sits right in his mind. He feels like a real bastard for thinking of it, but he realizes that he always expected Sherlock to commit suicide eventually, but he never really expected him to play the hero.

He turns on his music and to hell with the neighbors.

Here is what John does when he returns home that night:

He sets an alarm so he won't miss his cab in the morning and forces himself to pack before he drifts off.

Defying even the twisted logic that governs dreams, he doesn't see Sherlock in his sleep, even though he has thought of little else for the past several months, waking or otherwise.

He is in Afghanistan and they bring they bring in the young man. The boy, really. Can't be more than twenty years old. They tell John he was caught in a blast. His legs are mangled, huge chunks of flesh incinerated or blasted away. The boy is writhing in agony, moaning and gasping, but as he sees John, he becomes lucid enough to plead: "Don't cut off my legs! Please! Don't cut off my legs!" He reaches to grab John's arm to emphasize his point, but his grip is weak and misplaced – his fingers brush John's glove instead.

"Gas him," says Dr. Watson.

"Listen to me! Please! I don't want you to cut them off!"

"Gas him," says Dr. Watson, more insistently. The mask goes on and the boy goes silent.

The boy survives. He'll live a long, healthy life as a double amputee.

Watson visits him after he wakes. "Fuck you!" the boy screams. "What did you do to me? You stole my fucking legs, motherfucker! I'd rather be dead! Fuck you!"


	3. He's right about the guitar, you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is a bit short for practical purposes; the next key plot point deserves its own chapter. Thanks to everyone who has read and/or reviewed.**
> 
> * * *

Mycroft arrived at the airport first, or so Lestrade assumed when he saw then man leaning amiably against a pillar, personal assistant chattering beside him, John nowhere in sight.

"I'm so glad you were able to join us, Detective Inspector."

"Here's a thought," said Lestrade, grabbing a café chair and sinking down into it, "any chance you could avoid the whole all-knowing none-caring act on hold for a bit? I've got no quarrel with you personally, but it can't have escaped your notice that John does. So maybe don't antagonize him and we'll get this job done."

"You have no quarrel with me? Fascinating."

"See, that sort of smug detachment is actually what I just asked you not to do."

"I assure you, Detective Inspector, that locating my brother is my utmost priority."

"Just Lestrade."

"Hmm?"

"You don't have to call me Detective Inspector. 'Lestrade' is fine. Or 'Greg' if you feel like it, but I doubt you do."

"Dr. Watson approaches." Mycroft pointed to the southern end of the corridor.

And so he was, clearly off balance with his luggage and his cane. He certainly looked calmer than he had the night before. When he neared the pillar, nodded at each of them in greeting, but said nothing.

"Give Anthea your phones," said Mycroft, addressing both Greg and John.

"I think I'll keep mine, thanks," said Lestrade.

"You misunderstand. She will swap out the SIM cards so the phones function in America. The alteration will also allow you to appear to be calling from any of several different numbers, both British and American."

John was the first to dig into his pocket and hand over his mobile. In return, Anthea handed him a plastic bag full of ID cards, at least two passports, and an airline ticket. "In addition to updated versions of your own ID, you're Louis Granger," she said. She handed a second bag to Lestrade and added, "And you're Geoffrey Harding. Should anyone inquire, you both work in an arcane branch of finance pertaining to international commodities speculation."

Mycroft smiled very slightly. "The memory stick in each bag contains all of the contacts and communications which Ms. Hooper was so kind as to supply. Many are cryptic or flatly encoded. I suggest that you review them during the flight, once you've had the opportunity to sleep, of course."

John nodded dully.

"I would propose that we pass through security one at a time, staggered in forty minute intervals. As I have not yet had my breakfast, I would suggest that I go last."

John nodded again and turned and walked toward security. Lestrade checked his watch. Mycroft looked toward the pastry counter.

* * *

"Where did you get that? Is that a guitar?" Maybe John was waking up as the morning progressed, or maybe he was becoming more lively as they began to make actual progress toward their goal. Or maybe he had more energy because, in Mycroft's absence, he no longer had to put all his efforts toward the inhibition of impulses.

"It's a crap one. I walked off grounds and bought it off a guy who was about to get himself picked up for busking anyway."

"I think I was asking _why_ do you have a guitar?"

"We have false IDs for a reason. Need to not look like ourselves."

"We're going to America, not 1960."

"Do I look like a copper, now? No, I do not. I might look like a strung-out has-been Euro-hippie, but I don't look like a copper. Mission fucking accomplished."

"Do you even play the guitar?

"Not in the slightest."

"You don't think that could, say, blow your cover?"

"There's a flaw in your reasoning, mate. Think about it. When, in your entire life, have you seen a bloke carrying around an acoustic guitar and thought you ought to ask them to play you a song? Never, that's when."

* * *

On the flight over, they worked to organize the scraps of information, Mycroft hurriedly contacting a number of nameless informants. Oddly, no one came to tell him to turn off his mobile phone. They had surprising privacy, in fact, somehow having merited several unoccupied rows.

"This one is talking about _id_ and _superego_ ," said Lestrade, squinting a messageboard screen capture. "Isn't that some kind of psychology thing?"

"Freud believed the psyche consisted of three components," replied Mycroft, in his dearest impression of a terribly uninspired university professor. "The _id_ is the seat of base instinct, the _ego_ manages day-to-day needs, and the _superego_ is the source of higher strivings, such as morality."

" _Id_ is also DI spelled backwards," remarked John. "Detective Inspector. See, this one says _Binned cufflinks. Id is safe._ Must be when he took out Greg's sniper." It was odd to talk so calmly about Sherlock murdering people.

"Why would he call my sniper _cufflinks_?"

"Not a clue. Maybe he wore cufflinks. Sherlock always hated them."

"If Greg," Mycroft said the name as if it were a foreign and slightly sour word, "is the _id_ , what does that make you, John?"

"Well, I guess I would be the day-to-day one and Mrs. Hudson would be the higher strivings."

"You give yourself far too little credit," Mycroft smiled blandly, "or such is obviously Sherlock's opinion. You see here? He refers to protecting the _Seismograph Hue_ , clearly an anagram of _superego_ and _Hamish_." He added for Lestrade's benefit, "John's middle name."

"Why would he send these notes to Molly? She's clever enough, but he couldn't have really expected her to figure out word scrambles and the like." Greg scratched his head. "And she didn't really know John, unless I missed that part, so she wouldn't know his middle name."

"It was insurance," said John softly. "In case he was…unable to complete his mission. So that we wouldn't have to start from scratch."

"May I say that I'm still a little weirded out that I had a killer trained on me and never even knew it?"

"Your shooter's name is Moran, John," Mycroft stated, ignoring Lestrade, without looking up from his tablet. "S. Moran, ex-service. I'm getting more details for you now. This message was clearly meant for me, it's based on a code we used as boys."

"Are we any closer to finding where he might have gone in America?" asked John.

"Much of what he knows about forgery, he learned from me," said Mycroft. "I am developing a list of his aliases presently. It seems he was most recently Christopher Hauser, so I imagine that will be the starting point."

"There's got to be a hundred Christopher Hausers in America," said Lestrade.

"Yet another reason I despise legwork," replied Mycroft blandly.

* * *

A hand gently woke John from his nap. "This is Colonel Sebastian Moran." Mycroft displayed the photograph on his tablet. "He was a sharpshooter in the British military. Do you recognize him?"

"No, I've never seen him before in my life."

"Neither have I," said Mycroft, "and that worries me terribly."

* * *

A flight attendant appeared with a stack of papers, about three inches thick.

Lestrade squinted at them, no more than half-awake. "I didn't know you could get a fax on an airplane."

"You most likely cannot," replied Mycroft, "but I can." He split the stack into thirds. "These are descriptions of John Does who have been brought to various American hospitals during the appropriate time frame. We need to sort them into those that could and could not have plausibly been Sherlock. It's extremely unlikely he could have changed his height or race, so I suggest we begin with that."

* * *

"Is he really asleep?" Lestrade gestured at Mycroft.

"Who knows? He probably has a microrecorder going all the time when he does sleep, just to make sure he doesn't miss anything."

"Why do you hate him so much? I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but most people don't get along with Sherlock. You can't go loathing everyone who rowed with him."

There were several answers John could have provided to that question, the simplest of which was that Mycroft used to kidnap him on a regular basis. Then there was Mycroft's possessive, malignant concern for Sherlock's well-being, but no, Sherlock would be ashamed of that – not of his brother's behavior of course, nor of his own, but of those terrible moments in which his drug cravings overrode his judgment and control. And then there was the final sin, which was the only one John could put into words: "He sold Sherlock out to Moriarty. Gave Moriarty the weapons he needed to get Sherlock on that roof in the first place."

"Why would he do a thing like that?"

"The worst people are the ones who think they know best."

* * *

It would be easy to say the next days in New York City were a blur, but in reality they were quite the opposite – too-crisp drudgery of hopes rising and falling, dread building and abating.

They poured over photographs and licenses and medical files. They made phone calls in fake accents. They personally visited the homes of six Christopher Hausers, even though four of them were terribly unlikely, because John couldn't bear the thought of leaving a stone unturned. Mycroft somehow managed to acquire them guns.

They slept little. Mycroft would break for meals; he felt it uncivilized to do otherwise. Lestrade just absently chewed on crisps and pizza slices while he worked. John had no appetite, but he forced down a bland calorie-dense foods at regular intervals.

"This one's retarded," said Greg, hanging up the phone.

His companions looked up at him, unsure whether he was using the word 'retarded' in a literal or metaphorical sense.

"Christopher Hauser of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Matches Sherlock's description, except he's got short red hair. The lady on the phone even said he has a foreign accent, though she guessed Australian. Either of you know if Americans can tell the difference? Thing is, this guy's registered with the state disability services board, or whatever it is here. They've got him in supported employment and everything."

"I can't imagine my brother would…tolerate acting as a mentally disabled individual for any length of time."

John shook his head, "We're looking at about a hundred Christopher Hausers. There can't be that many with foreign accents. It's definitely worth a look."

Mycroft turned to Lestrade. "Your opinion?"

"I think impersonating the developmentally disabled is pretty crass, even by Sherlock's standards, but I wouldn't put it past him." He tipped his head from side to side as if considering. "The lady I spoke to was part of the supported employment division. She didn't have his residence address or phone, but she gave me the address of the animal shelter he supposedly volunteers at."

"Animal shelter?" echoed Mycroft skeptically. "John, I really do not-"

"I'm going," said John. "You can say behind if you like. I really don't care."


	4. Anderson can be Scrappy Doo

"So is this what you guys used to do on your little adventures?" asked Lestrade, shifting in the back seat of the rental car. He and John were still sifting through endless stacks of paper while Mycroft drove.

"Pretty much," said John, "though usually I would handle all the paperwork alone while Sherlock stared mightily into the distance and talked to himself."

"Huh." Lestrade shrugged. "I always assumed you two drove around in a van and solved mysteries."

"Did you just compare my brother to Scooby Doo?" It was difficult to tell whether Mycroft was offended, bored, or both.

"I have to admit, I'm pretty shocked you know what Scooby Doo is, Mycroft. Wouldn't have thought it would be up your street." Lestrade chuckled. "And no, I wasn't comparing your brother to Scooby Doo. John is clearly Scooby Doo. Sherlock is Shaggy. And I guess that makes you Fred."

"Sherlock can't be Shaggy," objected John, "Shaggy's always eating. Sherlock's more of a Velma."

"I suppose that leaves you to take the roll of Shaggy, Detective Inspector," said Mycroft with an indelicate grin.

"Least I'm not Fred," Greg grumbled.

* * *

Pittsburgh turned out to be a dirty, industrial city plastered along dozens of enormously steep hills ("Altitudinally diverse," Mycroft quipped). They had left the car behind half a mile from the animal shelter based on some paranoid worry about the license plate being tracked. No one mentioned the possibility that Sherlock might flee if he knew he was being followed, but it hung unstated in the air nonetheless. They had expected a short, easy walk to their destination.

In fact, John hobbled uphill at a painfully slow pace, Mycroft was clearly out of breath, and Greg was really feeling the absence of his old workout habit at the Met's gym. They were being passed by natives, including children and the elderly, who were obviously used to the terrain.

"Our terminus," said Mycroft, pointing across the street, "is on the other side of that block."

Greg looked across until the traffic passed, then loped across the street, John following behind him. Mycroft, in contrast, continued up the road to the intersection and waited for the light to turn before crossing.

"Laws," said Mycroft when they met up on the far corner, "are what separates us from savagery. I should think you," he pointed his umbrella at Lestrade, "above all people would know that."

"Well I'm not a copper anymore, now am I?" asked Lestrade, a bit cold and angry. "I figured I ought to break a few laws to celebrate. Admittedly, I was hoping for something a bit saucier than jaywalking, but I take my kicks where I can get them."

John shifted his weight to his back foot. "You're not anymore? They ruled against you, then?"

"Yeah," said Lestrade dully. "Donovan called me yesterday to tell me the news. She thought I'd rather hear it from a friend than just get the letter in the mail. It's probably sitting at my flat right now."

"That's bollocks, mate," said John. "They can't do that, it'll get sorted out."

"No, it's best I could have hoped for, really. They're not pressing charges for obstruction or whatever they want to call it, and none of my people and none of the other senior officers are getting disciplined, just me."

"I didn't know there were others. I thought he only worked with you."

"Well, that's how it turned out, didn't it? The others could never figure out how to work with him. Gregson held on the longest, but he made the same mistake all the others did, which was calling in Sherlock for the cases you really wanted solved instead of the ones that were real puzzles. The worst ones, the ones with kids and such, they're usually pretty straightforward, I mean it's almost always a nanny, or a step-dad, or mum's boyfriend, innit? And since there was no mystery, Sherlock wasn't interested, and since everyone was keyed up, it meant his particular brand of, um, commentary was particularly ill-appreciated."

"But your pension," argued John.

"Yeah, you know, I've figured out a way in my head not to be too angry about this, and it works best if I don't think about it too much."

"Let's continue, shall we, gentlemen?" said Mycroft, gesturing down the sidewalk.

* * *

The animal shelter was a three-story brick building that had obviously been painted white some years ago, but only peeling remnants remained. The windows were covered over with a mosaic of photographs featuring happy pet owners and their adoptees. They could hear yips and meows and the occasional squawk, which only became louder when they opened the door.

A woman stood at the entrance counter, rocking slightly and tapping her fingers together in front of her eyes. A laminated sign on the counter read, "Hello, my name is Alicia. I communicate using a computer. Just speak to me like you normally would."

"Hello Alicia," said Mycroft. They had agreed that he would take the lead. He had somehow obtained new identity documents which established him as the elder brother and principal caretaker of Christopher Hauser. "I would like to speak to the person in charge of the supported employment program."

Alicia continued to rock back and forth and fidget with the fingers on her left hand, but with her right, she began pressing buttons on a black computer about half the size of a shoe box. When she pressed a large red button, the box spoke in a monotone. "That's Caroline. I will get her for you. Please wait here. Thank you." Alicia spun on the balls of her feet and tiptoed into the back of the building. She re-emerged a few minutes later followed by a short, professionally-dressed woman in her mid-forties. Her smile revealed she was missing several teeth.

"Should we talk outside?" asked Caroline. "It gets awfully loud in here." She gestured to the front door and held it open for them.

"Thank you for taking the time to speak with me," said Mycroft, extending a hand congenially. "I'm Christopher Hauser's elder brother. We're reviewing his program to see if any adjustments need to be made."

"Oh, I think he's doing wonderfully here. He really loves the animals and he's able to do quite a lot of independent work feeding them and taking them for walks. He still needs some reminders to use his checklist when he's cleaning the cages and for completing his record-keeping, but no more than any of our other volunteers." She put on a conspiratorial smile. "I do have to ask, is one of you John?"

"Now what makes you say that?" said Lestrade, with a broad, knowing smile, the kind that said, 'It's okay to tell me; I already have the answers'. He hadn't made it as a copper for _nothing_.

"I don't know, maybe he just likes the name, but Christopher keeps naming animals 'John'. The ones he really likes. So far, we've got a fish, a rabbit, and four dogs all named John. It was a bit of a fight with him when somebody wanted to adopt the rabbit."

Greg pressed his fist back against his mouth to hold back laughter. Mycroft gave a single bemused chuckle.

"When is his next shift?" asked John, because it was a far less suspicious question than 'what is his address'.

"Oh," said the woman, "well, he's here now. I think he's out walking one of the John-dogs."

"He's here?" asked Watson, eyes wide, almost panicked. He must have seemed too eager, because the woman looked a little taken aback and Mycroft put on a paternal and condescending smile before patting his shoulder and saying, "You'll get to see him soon, John. Remember, you must be patient."

It was obvious what Mycroft's behavior was meant to imply, and John was fairly certain that there was a special circle of hell reserved for those who impersonated the developmentally disabled. But they were so close to finding Sherlock and hell seemed awfully far away, so John put on a small, sheepish grin and said, "Sorry, I can wait patiently," in what he hoped was a simple manner and not a cruel caricature.

"He should be back in a few minutes," said the woman kindly. "He just takes the dogs around the block." She leaned toward Mycroft, "He knows the route well, he won't get lost. It's only about a ten minute walk, and he usually jogs with them."

The word 'jog' stood out to John. He had seen Sherlock run, had seen him sprint, leap, and dash. He had seen Sherlock walk, stride, stagger, and even bounce. But he had never seen him jog. It seemed so pedestrian, so unlike him.

"May I ask," said Mycroft, "how many hours per week he volunteers?"

"About ten to fifteen. That's the norm for our disabled workers."

"Sometimes he has had difficulty at his previous work placements, getting along with co-workers, taking correction, and the like," said Mycroft, voice still painfully supercilious. "Has that been a problem here?"

"No, not at all. We all love Christopher. He's on time and he follows his schedule. And it's so obvious how much he cares for the animals, and if you don't mind me saying," she added with a slight giggle, "we all love his voice. It must be the accent. Carla, our itinerant veterinarian, keeps telling him he should do advertisements."

That didn't sound like Sherlock at all. He had never shown any particular affection for animals, not even the normal sort of cuddly feeling most people got around puppies or kittens. He hadn't even understood, not really, why the Baskerville hotel owners had been hesitant to put their dog down. John was starting to feel quite tense; something was very wrong here.

Alicia walked up behind Caroline, tapped her on the shoulder, and then began making a series of hand signals. "Thanks for telling me," said Caroline. "I've got to go inside and handle a vomiting cat in the entrance room. You're welcome to wait out here for Christopher to come back. Or inside if you like, but…well, cat vomit." She smiled and re-entered the building.

Before he could glance at Greg or Mycroft to see their reactions, John heard footfalls and yipping bounding up the sidewalk. He turned to see a tall, thin man with pale skin and short ginger hair who was, in fact, jogging. He was dressed in loose blue jeans and a bright green t-shirt underneath a mostly-unzipped grey hooded sweatshirt and a mongrel dog trotted beside him. When he was ten meters away, his focus suddenly shifted from the dog to the men standing in the archway. He froze, the dog pacing back and forth in front of him impatiently.

And oh god, it was him. There was no mistaking it. It was him.

John had prepared himself for this moment, had imagined over and over what it might be like to see Sherlock alive again. He had even imagined what it might be like if they had recognized him in one of those horrible mortuary reports. But this was nothing like anything he had imagined. John heard a shuffle beside him and there was Greg, holding Mycroft up by the arm; all the strength seemed to have been drained from the elder Holmes.

"Christopher" stood stock-still, head angled downward and mouth slightly open. He said, "I can't see you. It's not safe. Only John-4 and John-5 and John-2 and…" He reflexively patted the dog's head. "You're a good John-4. Good boy."

"Well, Sherlock," John hissed, closing the gap between them, "John-1 wants to know what's going on here."

"John-1 was a dog, but he died. He had a disease, they said."

"My brother," said Mycroft, addressing Watson as if Sherlock wasn't there, "always starts counting from zero whenever logical and feasible. You're not John-1, you're John-0." Mycroft seemed to have recovered from his initial shock, and now there was no sign of it.

John took another step forward and Sherlock turned to the side with a look of pain on his face.

"I can't see you! I mustn't!" Sherlock knelt on the ground and began to pet John-4, holding him close with one hand and scratching his head with the other. His eyes were scrunched tightly shut; he obviously took his own rule too literally.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, looming above him, "you've done well. We've taken apart all of Moriarty's organization. They're all gone. Moran is dead and the danger is over. You can see John-0 again."

Lestrade turned to the side, uncomfortable with the lie. "We're just…I'm just glad you're alive."

Sherlock continued to hug the dog close. "Good John-4. You're a good John-4. Good John-4."

John knelt on the ground. "We're in this together again. No more hiding. You can drop the act."

Sherlock's eyes darted to John, then back to the ground. "Moran is dead," he said. "John is safe." Then he let go of the dog and immediately latched his arms around John, like a drowning man shifting from piece of floating debris to another. Sherlock sniffed deeply and pressed the side of his face to Watson's arm. "John is safe."


	5. Seriously, deduction can bite me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Just a little warning with regard to disability issues. I've written the characters in the story as being fairly ignorant with regard to disability etiquette which is how I think they would act, given what we know about their lives and experiences (i.e., none of them are known to live or work with a cognitively disabled person), combined with the fact that they are unsure what to make with the Sherlock situation as a whole.**

"This is my flat," said Sherlock, putting his key in the lock, "just me. Miss Janine comes on Thursdays to help."

The apartment complex was a bit shabby with missing shingles and litter strewn on the walkways, but it didn't seem manifestly unlivable or unsafe. The front door led into a small kitchen that was neither spotless nor filthy, but bore no evidence of stored body parts or strange experiments. Past the kitchen was a small den with a ratty sofa, a few chairs and an old telly propped up on a bookshelf – there were none of Sherlock's preferred reference books on the shelf, just a few DVDs, a phone book, and a pair of word search magazines. A simple jigsaw puzzle lay partially completed on a card table.

"My bedroom is upstairs," said Sherlock before settling into one of the chairs. He kept looking back and forth among his visitors as if unsure what to make of them. Every few minutes, he would furrow his brow as if concentrating, but the moment always passed without apparent epiphany and he would return to a sort of blank contentment.

* * *

There were hypotheses to be tested.

_Hypothesis 1_ : The man before them was not Sherlock, but in fact a planted imposter.

"Well, we can test for that easily enough. Just run his DNA against Mycroft's," said John.

"And how long would that process take?" asked Mycroft.

"Depends on how much you're willing to bribe the labs. A couple of days would be the minimum."

"I've got a quicker method," said Lestrade, pivoting to his back foot. "Oi, Sherlock! Name a planet of the solar system besides the earth."

"That's a stupid question," said Sherlock flatly.

Lestrade nodded blithely. "I'm convinced."

"I'm afraid Sherlock's unfamiliarity with basic astronomy was made quite public on Dr. Watson's blog," said Mycroft.

"Okay," said John, "something not on the blog, but something he didn't delete." He licked his lower lip. "Sherlock, who shot the cabbie?"

Sherlock looked from John to Lestrade, then back to John. "You did," he said very quietly, almost a whisper, "but it's secret."

"That's all right," said Greg, patting Sherlock's arm in an avuncular manner. "I already knew."

"You did?" John squinted.

"Course I did, I'm not an idiot."

"And if he knew, then others could have known as well," added Mycroft. He turned to face his brother. "What is the scientific name for the bee?"

"There's," Sherlock grimaced, "a lot."

"Name them all."

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut and deeply furrowed his brow in concentration. His expression lacked the focused intensity of his usual trips to his mind palace, and instead displayed a sort of grasping or desperation. "The genus is _Apis_. The species are _adreniformis_ , _florea_ , _dorsata_ , _cerana_ , _koschevnikovi_ , _mellifera_ , _nigrocincta_." His eyes flew open and he gasped for breath. "I like bees," he added before resting the tip of his tongue out the right side of his mouth.

Mycroft gave no sign of acknowledging this response. Instead he asked, "And whose is your skull?"

"I don't understand the question," said Sherlock in a dull, rote voice.

"Your skull," Mycroft repeated.

Sherlock pointed to his head.

"The skull you kept at Baker Street."

"Okay," Sherlock nodded.

"Who did that skull belong to?"

"No." Sherlock shut his eyes again.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft in a warning tone.

"No!"

"Answer the question," he commanded firmly, as if chastising a willful child. "Whose skull did you keep at Baker Street?"

Sherlock stayed stubbornly silent for a moment longer before he seemed to wither under his brother's glare. "Mummy's," he said softly.

Greg blurted out, "That's really fucked up," before he could stop himself.

"It's him," said Mycroft, turning to address John and Lestrade. "We should run the genetic tests to be certain, of course, but I am confident that this is Sherlock."

* * *

_Hypothesis 2:_ Sherlock could be faking a mental disability.

"In the entire time I've known him," said Lestrade, "I don't think Sherlock has ever held back from correcting somebody when he thinks they're wrong. And he thinks people are wrong a lot, so I can't imagine him putting up with being treated like this for very long, not if it was just an act."

"I've seen him playact roles when he thinks it's worth doing," said John, "for cases."

"We mustn't succumb to wishful thinking," replied Mycroft.

"Now wait a bloody minute," said Lestrade, "how's that wishful thinking?" The idea of Sherlock being some sort of fraud was still a touchy subject.

"Because the alternatives are worse," answered John.

"Pick's dementia," said Mycroft.

"Is that like Alzheimer's?"

"Sort of." John exhaled slowly. "It's a type of dementia that strikes people in middle age. Alzheimer's is more about memory; Pick's is more about language and behavior. It's much rarer, but Sherlock's mother died of it, so he's at greater risk."

"Middle age, though," argued Lestrade. "Sherlock's what? Thirty years old?

"Rarer still," agreed John, "but not impossible, especially with a first degree relative."

"There is no cure," said Mycroft. "No treatment. The mind simply continues to decay until it can no longer support life."

"I'm not a doctor, but is that really the only other option?"

John shook his head. "No, but the other possibilities are all just varieties of brain damage, and once the damage is done, well, the brain is not a particularly resilient organ." He looked upward. "He could have had a head injury, a stroke, a bleed in the brain, encephalitis, a hypoxic event, AIDS dementia complex-"

"He does _not_ have HIV," interrupted Mycroft. "I am certain."

"What if he's using again?" asked Lestrade. "Could drugs do this?"

"Not directly, no," said John. "An overdose could cause a stroke or hypoxia. A contaminated sample could cause an infection or heavy metal toxicity. He's obviously been living this way for months, though. Damage that's been around that long really can't be undone."

"So he's stuck this way forever?" asked Lestrade.

Mycroft ran his fingers across his mouth.

"I need some air," said John, as he abruptly turned and walked out the front door.

"He shouldn't be out alone," said Mycroft mildly. "Keep in mind that…the gentleman we discussed on the plane is still a threat."

"I'll go with him," volunteered Lestrade. "I'm sure he just needs a little space."

Mycroft nodded, then turned back to face his brother.

"Sherlock." Mycroft stood in front of him. "Look at me." He tipped Sherlock's chin upward. "You're a Holmes. You have your dignity, even in this condition."

"I don't like you," said Sherlock.

"I want you to know that I am…I am sorry for whatever role I have played in bringing you to such a state."

"I don't like you."

Words seemed so ineffective, but he forged on. "You don't have to forgive me and I imagine you will not. I just want you to know that I am sorry." Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock flinched inward, drawing his hands to his scalp and his forearms over his face. "I don't like you. I want John-4. I want to see John-4."

"Of course." Mycroft withdrew his hand.

"I want to see John-4."

* * *

Greg held up a pack of cigarettes. "You smoke?"

John shook his head. "I'm a doctor. And I thought you quit."

"I did. I un-quit, just a little."

"I was prepared for him to be," John breathed deeply, "dead. I wasn't prepared for this."

"He doesn't really seem much like the Sherlock we knew."

"Wait a minute, what are you doing out here?"

"Mycroft thought you shouldn't be alone, seeing as Moran is-"

John spun on his foot and began making his way back indoors, his cane barely touching the ground.

"What's-" Lestrade followed after.

And there was Sherlock, arms over his face, curled in on himself. "I want John-4. I want to see John-4. I want John-4."

"YOU!" John shoved Mycroft backwards. "You stay away from him! You are never alone with him, never! Do you understand me?"

"I believe you are making yourself perfectly clear."

"Let's everyone calm down here," said Lestrade. "You all right, Sherlock?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Well, what do you want to do right now?"

"Make John-4 my pet, but no pets at my flat."

"Okay, yeah, but maybe someday. He seems like a nice dog," added Lestrade placatingly, before he looked back at John who was still eyeing Mycroft aggressively. "Sherlock's okay, everybody's okay. So let's all just calm the fuck down."

* * *

"Where's John-0?"

God, Lestrade was never going to get used to that vacant look on Sherlock's face. "He and Mycroft went to the hospital. They'll be back soon."

"Somebody's sick?"

"No, they want to take you there to find out what happened to you, if maybe they can fix it. So John went because he's a doctor and he knows what he's looking for, and Mycroft went because he's good at being sneaky and he'll figure out how to get all the tests without anybody knowing."

"I don't understand the question." Greg was catching on that this was Sherlock's stock phrase for use whenever he was confused.

"Nobody's sick, Sherlock. You don't have to worry."

"Okay."

"Do you remember what you were like before? Back in England?"

Sherlock looked to the right, the tip of his tongue pressing between his lips. "I was clever," he said, "and mean."

"Huh. That's fair, I suppose. Do you remember me? Remember my name?"

"You're Lestrade."

"How about my first name?"

"Lestrade."

Greg laughed. "Some things never change, eh? You remember Molly Hooper? Remember her?"

"Yeah."

"Do you remember Moriarty?"

Sherlock's demeanor changed. He looked younger. He looked fearful. "Yes. Moriarty."

"Do you remember jumping off the roof of the hospital?" asked Greg, cautiously.

"Yes."

"Molly Hooper told us why you did. You were trying to protect your friends, right?"

"Yes. From Moriarty."

"Well, look. I want you to never, ever, ever think about jumping off of anything like that again. But, um, thank you. Don't do it again, but I'll just say thank you."

"You're welcome," said Sherlock politely.

"I think it's about time for dinner," said Lestrade. "How about pizza?"

"Pizza is Fridays," said Sherlock. He pointed to the refrigerator, which had a color-coded meal schedule taped to it.

"Well, that's a nice system you've got there. You make that yourself?"

"Miss Janine."

"Who's that?"

"Social worker."

Lestrade squinted at the meal chart. It listed a perfectly normal amount of food for an adult male. "Do you actually eat all of this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked confused.

"Do you eat all the foods on your schedule, or just some of them?"

"All."

Huh. So apparently being brain damaged or whatever gave Sherlock a normal human appetite. "Right. Well, look, it's a bit of a special occasion with all your friends coming to visit, so I think pizza would be okay. It'll be my treat."

"Mycroft's not my friend."

"We'll let him have some anyway, don't you think? He still has to eat, doesn't he?"

"No, he doesn't. He's fat."

"God, it really is you in there, isn't it?"

"I don't understand the question."

"No worries." Greg patted his shoulder and reached for the phone book. "I'll order dinner."

* * *

"What on earth are you watching?" Mycroft squinted disapprovingly at the telly.

"It's called _Celebrity Deathmatch_ ," said Lestrade. "I can't believe I've never seen this before. It's hilarious."

"Hilarious," echoed Sherlock, as the clay figurines on the screen proceeded to brandish flaming chainsaws. When one cut the other's arm off and proceeded to ride it around the ring like a rocket, both Sherlock and Lestrade laughed appreciatively.

Sherlock looked up suddenly as if he had only just become aware that John had entered his flat. "John-0," he said, "John-0 stays with me."

John swallowed heavily. He was irresistibly reminded of his doctor's story of the old man who needed antidepressants to cope with caring for his demented wife. "Yeah," said John, sinking onto the couch beside Sherlock, "I'll stay with you."

* * *

Mycroft was sleeping on the recliner, having lost the coin toss. Lestrade claimed the sofa. John had planned to sleep on the floor of the den – a lengthy military career having impressed upon him the capacity to sleep anywhere – but Sherlock kept saying he wanted John-0 to stay, so John followed him upstairs to his bedroom, reasoning that one scrap of floor was as good as another.

It was a small room, mostly filled by a bed and a chest of drawers. Sherlock took off his shirt for sleep, a process which John had seen before, but he couldn't stop himself from watching. Maybe a new mark on his torso would explain Sherlock's change. For reasons he couldn't quite understand, John found himself thinking about Victor Trevor and feeling inexplicably jealous.

He took off his jacket and settled to the floor.

Sherlock handed him a pillow. John couldn't help thinking that the old Sherlock would not have been so courteous.

* * *

John awoke two hours later, according to the red-glowing digital clock perched on the nightstand. He eased into a sitting position and considered the pros and cons of getting up for a piss.

Then, he saw Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on his bed, rocking quickly back and forth.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"John-0!" Sherlock's hands shot out and grabbed John's shoulders. "Not die."

John turned and sat down next to Sherlock. He put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him near to still the rocking. "It's okay. I'm alive. I'm safe. So are you, you're safe."

Sherlock touched the side of John's face. "Need my blogger," he said.

"And I need my friend." And I'm so glad you're alive, except it's not really you, is it?

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned forward, kissing John along jawbone. Then he opened his eyes, looking hopeful.

"Oh, Sherlock, no I can't. No." John shook his head.

Sherlock just stared back.

"I can't when you're like this. It's exploita-" John stopped himself, realizing that word would be meaningless to Sherlock. "I don't want to use you," he tried, but that sense of the word _use_ was quite complicated as well. "I don't want to…take without giving, be unfair."

Sherlock kissed him again, this time with better aim, landing on the corner of John's mouth.

"No," said John. "Just, no."

Sherlock nodded, his expression unreadable.

"How about I give you a back rub?" asked John. "It'll help you calm down and go back to sleep."

Sherlock nodded again, and John guided him to lay face down on the bed. This was a skill he had developed not via medical training or military service, but over his many, many attempts to keep his female sex partners happy and satisfied. But it would be useful here. He could touch Sherlock without being inappropriate, could avoid taking advantage of him without rejecting him.

John lay his hands across Sherlock's back. His blood moved and he suddenly felt quite panicked.

Okay, he thought to himself. Calm down and think about this logically. You can deduce a solution. What are the facts?

Fact 1: I a straight man. (Usually, mostly, essentially.)

Fact 2: I thought that my closest friend in the world, the man more dear to me than any other person could be, had committed suicide, but he actually faked his death to protect me, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson.

Fact 3: I am giving a mentally retarded man a back massage and I have an erection.

Well, this isn't helping, thought John. Fuck deduction.


	6. McCoy-based humor rarely helps

Lestrade awoke to a buzzing in his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID, then shuffled into the kitchen to offer himself at least the illusion of privacy.

"Why are you calling at this hour?" he slurred.

Greg was glad that no one could hear Cecelia's response.

"Well, it's not 8 am where I am." He was half-awake and a bit irritable.

"Yeah, it's not your business. And they ruled on it on Tuesday."

"Well not yet, Cee, please. I haven't even told my mum we're splitting yet."

"Because she's still all worked up over the whole Sherlock business. She reads the tabloids, thinks I've been running round with a serial killer. She's got herself worried sick."

"I'm sorry they've been asking after you. They shouldn't do that. If any of 'em won't leave you alone, just see if you can find out their name and the name of the rag they work for and call Sally Donovan. She'll see to 'em."

"You still have her number, right?"

"You don't need to feel funny about it. I told her to help you and she'll do what needs doing."

"I _will_ tell my mum, I promise, and then I'll sign the papers."

"No, I'm not trying to put this off. Have you told your parents?"

"Yeah, and what did they say?"

"I always said your dad was a smart guy."

"No, Cee, don't cry, I'm just teasing. He wasn't there every day, you were. It's your choice."

"Well, don't get mad at me about it! You're the one who kept sleeping around and you're the one who wanted us to get divorced. I don't know why. It's not like being married actually kept you from spreading your legs for every-"

"Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I really didn't. It's my fault, too, I know that."

"I have a favor to ask. The photo album I took, it doesn't have very many pictures of her. Do you think I could have a few more? Maybe her birthday parties or her first Christmas, that would be nice."

"Of course, I know."

"Yes."

"I'll call my mum by the end of the week, I'll call her and tell her and then I'll sign the papers, all right?"

"Yeah, fine, okay. Goodbye, Cee."

Greg hung up the phone. Why did he always end up feeling like the bad guy by the end of these conversations?

He padded back to the sofa with a raging headache. He wondered if Sherlock had some painkillers, maybe in the linen closet upstairs, but when he got to the base of the staircase, he saw John at the top, in his shorts, hair wet, towel wrapped around his shoulders. What the hell was Watson doing taking a shower in the middle of the fucking night?

Greg decided that going upstairs would be even more of a headache. He lay back down on the sofa and tried to get some sleep.

* * *

John must have managed to fall back asleep after his shower, because he awoke on the floor, to find Sherlock sitting next to him, looking down on him with an expression of mixed pleasure and surprise, as if he couldn't believe his luck.

"G'morning, then, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, expression unchanged.

John looked at the clock. They still had two hours before they planned to leave for the hospital, still had two hours before a series of reschedulings and cancellations would mysteriously leave an electroencephalograph, a CT scanner, and an MRI machine all unused and unguarded.

But there was another mystery to solve, one outside the realm of medical technology, one that had been weighing on John for a very long time.

"Did you know what it would do me, Sherlock? Did you think about it at all? Did you ever imagine what I would…how I would…watching you die?" John was unable to keep the anger from seeping into his voice.

"I don't understand the question." The lucky expression was gone.

"Of course you don't." John knew, logically, that he shouldn't have even said it. "Why would you? It's not even really about you. It's a question for the other Sherlock."

"I'm Sherlock."

"No, the other…" John sighed. "You remember before? Being very clever, solving crimes?"

Sherlock nodded. "I didn't wear a hat."

The deerstalker, of course. "Right. We'll call him, that smart man who lived in London, we'll call him Sherlock-1. And the way you are today, we'll call you Sherlock-2. Understand?"

"I'm Sherlock-2."

"That's right. You're Sherlock-2. And I'm sorry if I snapped at you because I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at Sherlock-1 for…for tricking me, for lying to me and making me think he was dead. And I'm mad at you for looking like Sherlock-1 and not being him, but that's not your fault, I know it's not, and I don't blame you for it."

"I don't understand the question." Sherlock looked worried for a moment before he reached down and ran his fingers over John's ear, expression fond.

"But I can't," said John, "I can't kiss you because the man I love is Sherlock-1." The word _love_ was going to have to suffice for his feelings, because John could think of no other word to describe his affections, and certainly not one that Sherlock-2 would understand.

"I love you too," said Sherlock and it sounded not quite perfunctory, but not revelatory either, like routine but meaningful farewell to a parent or a spouse.

There was no particularly good response to that. John stretched his left arm. It was terribly sore. "You should shower and get dressed before breakfast."

"Sherlock-1," said Sherlock, clearly thinking over the past few minutes, "and Sherlock-2. Where's Sherlock-0?"

* * *

When Lestrade awoke in the morning, Mycroft was already typing rapidly on his netbook while conducting a mobile conversation in rapid-fire Cantonese. He paused only to point to the still-warm kettle, and Greg nodded appreciatively. Once Mycroft's phone call ended, he alternated between sipping his tea and looking down as his computer contemplatively.

"So, um, I've got to ask," said Lestrade. "Was Sherlock dyeing his hair before or is he dyeing his hair now?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and waited nearly a minute, before noting disdainfully, "His name didn't give you a clue? 'Sherlock' refers to brightly colored hair."

"It's just, it's blowing my mind to see him as a ginger. No offense."

"None taken."

"It must be hard to see your brother like this."

"You've seen him change from addicted, to comatose, to vibrant, to dead. Is this newest change really so different?"

"You can't really mean that."

"I can't? Would you not prefer your daughter alive and disabled?"

"You know, even Sherlock had the decency not to use that just to win points in an argument."

"I assure you, I am doing nothing of the sort. You suggested that seeing Sherlock in this state must be distressing me as it does Dr. Watson. But in reality, although they considered themselves quite… _close_ , John knew my brother only briefly, only in one particular phase, so this man before him seems like a phantom, a mocking reminder of the Sherlock he lost. When you have known someone across their whole life, however, you expect change." A muscle in his lip twitched. "I am simply glad that he is alive."

They sat in silence for several minutes.

"And," said Mycroft, as if continuing directly from his previous sentence, "you may have noticed that my brother was not a happy man. I don't believe I have ever heard him laugh as he did watching that idiot telly program last night."

"I have," said Greg, "when he was running 'round London with John Watson."

They lapsed back into silence.

"You can return to Britain, you know. I could arrange for you to fly back this afternoon."

"That so?" asked Greg in a skeptical tone. He believed it was perfectly possible that Mycroft could work magic with airfare, but he wasn't wild about any particular reason Mycroft might have for encouraging his departure.

"I understand you have…family problems to attend to."

"You know what? New rule: no one with the last name 'Holmes' is allowed to comment on any member of my family. Ever."

* * *

The tenor of the conversation changed when John made his way downstairs.

"You're not coming?" asked John, beleaguered.

"You don't need me to drive," answered Mycroft, as he handed John a bus schedule.

"You don't think that you ought to _be there_?"

"You can't honestly be suggesting that Sherlock wants me to hold his hand."

"Yes, but we're going to find out what happened to him, how he got this way and you'd rather be doing…" John trailed off because, as was so often the case, he wasn't exactly sure what Mycroft was doing.

"As would be apparent to you if you stopped to consider the situation, we cannot consider this matter resolved while Moran is still free."

"Sherlock! Good morning!" yelled Lestrade pointedly, as Sherlock made his way down the stairs, still looking sleepy despite his shower.

* * *

"I was counting on Mycroft to…overrule people if we get caught being where we shouldn't," said John, as he held open the hospital lift.

"Don't worry too much," answered Greg, "I've still got my badge."

"I don't think a British police officer has much jurisdiction over an American hospital." John politely avoided specifying a _defunct_ British police officer.

"Yeah, but I can always hold it up and yell a whole lot. People don't really check whether your credential is valid. Turns out that obnoxious is a universal language."

"Who's sick?" asked Sherlock for the third time since they had entered the hospital.

"Nobody's sick, Sherlock," said Greg reassuringly. "It's just a checkup."

"You're good with that," commented John, "with talking to him."

"I got six nieces and nephews, and they were all like this at one point. I'm just talking to him like I talked to them."

The lift dinged and they walked down the hall, past an intensive care unit.

Sherlock pointed to a man on life support. "I did that," he said.

"You know that man?" asked John.

"Not him," said Sherlock. "I did that."

John and Greg exchanged glances but continued walking. The third electroencephalography suite was empty as promised. They guided Sherlock to sit down so John could attach the electrodes to his head. His new, shorter haircut was extremely helpful in this regard, but Sherlock resisted when he saw the conductive gel applicator – John had to admit that even he had always agreed that it looked like an enormous syringe.

"It's all right," said Lestrade. "It's just a water gun, see? Just gonna get your hair wet. No big deal."

"Just a water gun."

"That's right. Just sit still and John'll take care of it."

"John-0," nodded Sherlock. He relaxed enough for the application to be completed and the measurement to begin.

"These readings are bizarre," said John. "I'm not a neurologist, but these are definitely not normal."

"Is he having seizures then?"

"No, it's not epileptiform activity. It's just…it doesn't look like anything I'm familiar with, but it's been a very long time since I've read an EEG. We need a specialist."

"Well, let's stick him in the MRI and see if that solves it up."

"CT scanner first," replied John. "An MRI is a giant magnet. If there's any shrapnel, any metal fragments in him, they can shift during the scan and cause damage, so we have to check with the CT."

But Sherlock didn't want to get into the CT scanner – or rather, he was hesitant but willing to lie down on the platform, but when they turned the machine on and its disorganized operational thrumming began, he leapt up and backed away from it, startled. John was ready to offer some sedatives he had nicked during the previous day's expedition (Sherlock's long campaign of pickpocketing lessons had eventually paid off), but Lestrade was able to talk him down by explaining that the machine was just a fancy camera and bribing him with promises of more puerile telly.

"Holy hell," breathed Lestrade as Sherlock's brain was reconstructed before them. "What the fuck is that?" He pointed to a small device on the side of Sherlock's brain, clearly manmade, with a round textured object mounted onto a flat, rectangular surface.

"There're two of them, one on the left inferior temporal and the other on the right superior parietal. They're on the outside of the skull, under the skin."

"Yeah, but what are they?"

"I have no idea. They could certainly explain the EEG findings, but I don't know about anything that would be implanted in the brain like that. Looks oddly familiar, though."

"Magnet," said Sherlock.

Greg and John looked up, startled. "What are you doing in here?" asked John.

"Sign said done."

John sighed. Some of the newer CT models had patient feedback screens – made things easier on claustrophobics. "What's this about a magnet?"

Sherlock pointed to the brain scan, to the implanted object on the right. "Magnet."

"You're telling me that's a magnet?" asked John. "How do you know?"

"I don't understand the question."

"How did it get there?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Where did the magnet come from?" John was losing patience.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, distressed. "I don't understand the question! I want to see John-4 today! I want to take John-4 for a walk!" He opened his eyes and looked rapidly back and forth from the CT display to John and back again. "I'm not supposed to see you. I can't see you. This is bad. I can't. This is bad. This is bad."

* * *

Between awkward reassurances and a generous dose of sedatives, they were able to coax Sherlock out of the hospital and back to his flat, at which point John insisted that he go up to his bedroom and rest. He still seemed upset, worried maybe, but he wasn't being belligerent or stubborn. And that was odd, really. Sherlock's obstinate nature was as much a part of his identity as his genius.

John sighed and sank into the sofa.

"These devices you've discovered, they explain what's happened to him?" asked Mycroft.

"I don't know." John sounded tired. John felt tired. "I don't know what they are or how they work. The one on the left is over the part of the brain that controls language, so if it's inhibiting function somehow, that would explain why he's having so much trouble speaking and understanding us."

"And the other?"

"I don't know the specifics of that spot. It's generally called association cortex; it's higher level sensory processing. Assuming these are the cause, it does explain why he doesn't have any motor deficits – the motor planning and execution areas would be unaffected." A pause. "I think."

"What's in between them?" asked Lestrade.

"In between what?"

"In between the two magnet-things. They look like they're facing each other."

John closed his eyes and thought back to medical school. "In the middle of the brain, there are a lot of white matter tracts, bundles of nerves that connect one part of the brain to another. They're important for a lot of things…working memory, mostly."

"His memory doesn't seem so bad," said Lestrade. "He remembers who we are, and all those terms for bees."

"No, working memory is different from what we usually call memory. It's closer to concentration, how many ideas or concepts you can think about at once."

"Would a defect in working memory explain his altered," Mycroft paused, searching for an appropriate phrase, "emotional behavior?"

"It could," said John. "I've seen soldiers with brain injuries who were constantly angry or cried at the drop of a hat. It's like, there's so little room in the mind, they can't concentrate on calming thoughts or pleasant memories, or anything else, so little problems seem overwhelming. But like I said, I'm not a specialist."

"You think they can be removed safely?" asked Greg.

John suddenly straightened. "Mycroft, give me your laptop. I think I know where I've seen those devices before."

Mycroft closed several windows before passing the computer to John.

"When I was in the service, I read this article about a treatment for soldiers who had just undergone amputation, to prevent them from developing phantom pains." John turned the screen around to display the results of his search. "Have you ever heard of transcranial magnetic stimulation?"

Lestrade shook his head. Mycroft murmured, "It's used in neurological experiments, I believe."

"Right," said John, "if I recall, the idea is that a strong magnetic field can disrupt or enhance activity in a certain part of the brain, but I'm pretty sure it's only ever been used temporarily as part of experiments in information processing, and I think I remember something about it being used for phantom limbs."

"Could that cause Sherlock to become," Lestrade gestured to the man across the room, "this?"

"I really don't know. I'm not a neurologist."

In a failed attempt to lighten the mood, Lestrade muttered, "Damnit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a…oh wait."

"Is it reversible?" asked Mycroft.

"In theory, yes. I mean, they turn it on and off in those experiments. But then, if they're using it to treat a condition like phantom limb, I would assume they are expecting the effects to persist beyond the actual TMS sessions."

"So the longer it's left on…"

"Possibly. It's a new technology and it's not my specialty. It might not even be a TMS device; that's just my best guess."

"Disrupting it, removing it," said Mycroft, "there would be risk."

"Well of course there would be risk," said John. "There's risk in any surgical procedure, but if we're right about this thing, we have a chance to get the real Sherlock back."

Mycroft's expression darkened. "We already have the real Sherlock. He's resting upstairs right now, and we are _not_ risking his life unnecessarily. We should take him back to England before we make any rash decisions."

"Rash decisions?" John felt his temper boil close to the surface. "You just want him back in England so you can keep him under your thumb. You're loving this! Finally, your brother who doesn't cause you any trouble, who doesn't talk back, who you can control. Sherlock wouldn't want to be like this. This isn't the life he would have chosen for himself."

"Don't get self-righteous," snapped Mycroft. "Don't pretend this is about what Sherlock wants. As you may have noticed, he's quite happy in his current circumstances. This is about what _you_ want. You want to risk his life because you miss your friend and you want him back."

Suddenly, they both looked at Lestrade, as if expecting him to choose a side. He looked a bit stunned, and held up both palms in a 'surrender' gesture. "I think tempers are running high. We're all tired, we're all stressed out. He's had this thing in him for months; we can afford to take a little time to cool down before we make a decision."

It was Mycroft who stood down first, shifting his stance backward and angling his shoulders in. "Perhaps I should return to my work," he said, holding his hand out for his laptop, "and we can discuss this later."

"Right," said John, "later, sure. I'm going to go…" He gestured up the staircase. The tremor in his left hand had returned with a vengeance.

* * *

Sherlock was not, in fact, sleeping. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, rocking back and forth as he had the night before.

"What's wrong?" asked John.

"I don't…I think…"

John sat down next to him on the bed. "Take your time."

"Moran is alive," said Sherlock softly. "Isn't he?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The idea that TMS could be used to do this to a person is something I pulled out of my ass, though it seems vaguely plausible on the basis of what we know about the technology. I have been basing Sherlock's behavior that of individuals with massive brain damage in the same regions discussed in this chapter.**


	7. The band is called "Fake Drugs Bust"

"Moran…is alive," said Sherlock softly. "Mycroft said it."

John swallowed hard. It had been easy disapprove Mycroft's initial decision to lie about Moran, but in the moment, John found the truth stuck in his throat.

Sherlock seemed unperturbed by the delay, however, content to simply watch John with what little intensity he could muster.

"Yes," said John finally, "Moran is alive. But we're going to find him and take care of him. You don't need to worry."

"No, no. I can't. You can't. No." He squeezed his eyes shut and brought his hands to his temples, shaking his head all the while. "Don't die."

John sat down on the bed next to Sherlock. "Did Moran do this to you? Put the magnets in your head?"

"Don't ask me. You shouldn't know. Secret."

"No, no more secrets, Sherlock. We handle this together. Now what is going on? Tell me about it from the beginning."

"There was…well, it… I died, and then more dying and then…" Sherlock gestured almost frantically, unable to find the words he needed. "I was…fixing."

John tried to remember tricks he had used for communicating with recently brain damaged soldiers, ways he had tried to get information from them or keep them calm when they couldn't be extracted for days or even weeks. Word retrieval was a common problem when either language or working memory was affected, so he had made them lists of words or arrays of photographs to jog their memories, help them organize their thoughts – once he had even been lucky enough to have a tech who happened to be good at drawing.

"Wait here, wait one second. I'll be back." John dashed downstairs to grab paper and pen.

* * *

Paper and pen turned into markers and colored pencils and a world map and heads cut out of newspaper articles taped to toothpicks and stuck in clay.

"This one," Sherlock picked up a blank figurine. "Not a real copper." He pointed to Lestrade's picture. "Was going to…" Sherlock stuck out his forefingers like a gun and made a low, sudden noise like a shot.

"He was Lestrade's assassin," said John, summarizing. Sherlock would correct John if he echoed incorrectly.

"He left. Went…went to this place." Sherlock put the figurine in Russia. "Sherlock-1 chased him. Then," Sherlock made the same gun gesture, before looking back at John, appearing for all the world like a child shamefacedly confessing a minor transgression.

"Why did Sherlock-1 kill him? Was he really a threat anymore?"

"To be sure. To be safe."

Killing someone, even a Russian assassin, was hardly a straightforward affair. "What did you do with the body?"

"Tied heavy things on it. Sunk it in the lake. Fish eat it."

"Right, of course."

"Sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," said John. "You were protecting your friends. So what did Sherlock-1 do after he killed that man?"

"Went to see John."

"John who?"

Sherlock picked up the Watson figurine. "John-0."

"No, he didn't go to see me. I haven't seen you since you-" God, it wasn't even true and he still couldn't say it.

"See John in London, but John has his cane. Too sad."

"You mean he was watching me."

"With a cane," repeated Sherlock, "so he had to go."

* * *

Three days had passed, with Mycroft busily tracking with a constant stream of phone calls in various languages. John had created some kind of serial-murder arts-and-crafts collage and was spending most of his time upstairs with Sherlock trying to piece together what had happened between his fall from the hospital roof and the present.

Lestrade had offered his assistance to both, but the only request either had made was for him to walk down to the convenience store for snacks and coffee, a task which hardly filled up his days. So he had resorted to amusing himself in other ways: manually playing Solitaire, building towers of plastic cups, and watching whatever trash was on the telly. It was surprising, really, that he didn't realize until the third day that he had a perfectly viable alternative.

Gregory Lestrade was sitting on the staircase and playing the guitar – if one were to describe the situation generously. It had taken him 45 minutes and two trips to Wikipedia just to tune the thing, after which he spent a further 30 minutes figuring out the introductory chords to _Smoke on the Water_.

He had most recently moved on to Creedence Clearwater Revival's _Bad Moon Rising_ , alternating between listening to clips on his mp3 player and testing out different chords to see if they matched.

"I see the bad moon arisin'." He paused and carefully positioned his fingers for the next chord. "I see trouble on the way. I see hurricanes and lightning." He paused once more to compare two notes; upon settling his uncertainty, he sang, "I see bad times today."

"I see the bad moon arisin'," continued Lestrade haltingly.

"That's not how the song goes!" interrupted Mycroft, who had up until this point been successfully ignoring the matter.

"Says you, I know it by heart."

"Clearly you do not. After _bad times today_ , you go to the chorus: _Don't go around tonight_ and so on."

"First of all, it's _don't go_ _round_ _tonight_ , not _around._ And second of all, I don't know how to play the chorus yet."

"So you're just playing the first verse over and over?"

"It's called practicing."

"Could you please do that somewhere else?"

"Where else? John's with your brother upstairs, and I'd rather not go outside while we're still contending with a murderous sniper."

Mycroft sighed loudly.

"Besides, I'm thinking of starting a band."

"Oh, please, could your midlife crisis be any more cliché? What next, are you going to buy a tiny red sports car?"

Greg ignored the snipe. "Since when do you know _Bad Moon Rising_? They play a lot of CCR in public school, then?"

"I have a thorough and comprehensive grounding in musical theory."

"Hah. Your brother would have deleted it."

"I am not my brother. Unlike him, I long ago made the decision to be a part of the world, which means a certain awareness of popular culture is vital."

"You're so full of shit," laughed Lestrade, "I'll bet you just use that as an excuse to go slumming."

"How is it you didn't get yourself slapped on a daily basis?"

"On a copper's salary? I could hardly afford once a month."

"Tragedy."

* * *

John had given the floor up for a lost cause, and spent each night in the bed next to Sherlock. There was a little touching that John would have described as 'chaste' to anyone who questioned his motives, just a hand on Sherlock's arm or his back. Of course, in defense of the imaginary questioners, Sherlock tended to touch John's face, though he had at least stopped trying to kiss him, and John had – two nights out of three – decided to excuse himself for a late-night shower.

It was during the latter of these furtive wanks that John decided to try imagining himself with a man. A generic man, whose typically male hands John was picturing gripping the length of his cock. It was…not unpleasant, but not really particularly inspiring either. The night prior, he'd finished far more quickly by imagining a firm-breasted blonde from one of his favorite porn sites. Well, what if it wasn't a generic man? What if it was Sherlock?

The thought made his cock twitch and a shiver of energy tighten in his thighs.

No, don't think that. The way he is now, it would be wrong, and the way he'll be once he's fixed, he won't want to do it.

Except, he argued with himself, mentally retarded people have consensual sex. They must, somehow. And imagining it was far different from acting on it. He was standing in the shower precisely because he was committed to sorting out these urges without exploiting Sherlock.

He looked down at his erection and admitted that he was not in the best state to weigh the pros and cons of this argument. He forced himself to imagine the blonde woman on her knees and finished himself off.

* * *

"Hey Mum, it's Greg. I've, uh…I need to talk with you about something. Give me a call back. Love you, bye."

Lestrade hung up his phone, then opened it again.

"Sally? Yeah, it's me."

"Oh, well, not great, but…uh, look could you do me a favor? I need you to pick up some mail for me."

"On a holiday. Needed one."

"Yeah, it's the papers. Cecelia's finally decided…yeah, I dunno. Look, I just need you to fax 'em over to me. I'll give you the number. Or forge my name on 'em, I guess, but that seems a bit awkward."

"You're the best. Say hi to the team for me."

* * *

"Not like I'm in a hurry to get back or anything," said Greg, "but how long are we planning on staying here?"

"I don't want to bring him back to England," said John, "not until we can…not yet. It gives Mycroft too much power."

"You don't think you might be a little hard on him? If he made a mistake with Moriarty, that was a big fucking mistake, but…" Greg sighed. "Look, I got this brother, name's Ricky. He and I don't talk because Ricky's main occupation is insurance fraud. And he never got that maybe he should keep his mouth shut on certain topics when I was around, kept putting me in a real tight spot, and to make things worse, if I called him on it, he would accuse me of judging him and being all high and mighty." He shrugged. "I've been thinking of it as one of the bright spots of leaving the Met, that maybe I'll get back in touch with Ricky again. Anyways, look, my point is, I'd give him a kidney if it came to that and I'm sure he'd do the same for me. They're brothers; I'm sure they care about each other."

"Yeah, well, Mycroft's got a pretty fucked up way of caring about people."

"It's your call, mate. You knew Sherlock best. Speaking of which, what's he been telling you?"

"I probably shouldn't say. Don't want to, er, put you in a tight spot when you get your job back."

"I appreciate the optimism. How about, anything about Moran in particular?"

"Moran was in love with Moriarty. Not reciprocated, I think. Hard to tell when he speaks in these little sentence fragments."

"Well, that explains a lot. He's not just following orders, he wants revenge."

"Yeah. Apparently he really wanted to make Sherlock-1 suffer and thought that killing me would be the best way to do it, but they made some kind of deal and Sherlock had the surgery."

"You're telling me Sherlock let someone damage his brain _voluntarily_?"

"I think, I don't know. I'm not always sure what it is he's saying."

"It's kind of ironic, isn't it?"

"How?" asked John. He sounded tired.

"Well, the original Sherlock valued his mind and so Moran thought that making him retarded would be torture, but this Sherlock seems pretty happy with his life, especially now that he's got you back."

John didn't look pleased at the thought.

"Oh, come on, he was naming dogs after you. And a rabbit. And a goldfish." Greg was obviously suppressing laughter.

"You think he's happy now?"

"Well, he seems it. I'm not a mind-reader. I'm just saying, it doesn't look like a bad life he's got going here."

"You're siding with Mycroft, then? You want to leave the devices in?"

"Oh, I don't know. That's not for me to say. Mycroft's his kin and you're his best friend. I think you're absolutely right that the old Sherlock would not have wanted to stay this way, and I think Mycroft's right that brain surgery risky and maybe we should play it safe – you really think you could handle it if he died again?"

John said nothing.

"I guess it's all rather philosophical, which means it's definitely out of my league, because the two Sherlocks want different things, and it's like killing this Sherlock, to bring the other one back, except there's really only one person, right? So nobody's being killed unless he dies in surgery or unless he dies because we should have taken those things out and we didn't. So I just don't know."

"That's because you haven't…" John sighed. "Trust me on this one. I won't pretend that I don't want him back for my own sake, but you have to trust me that Mycroft's motives are…"

"Right, well, I understand, but-"

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't," echoed Lestrade. As was so often the case with Sherlock Holmes and company, he was happy to be along for the ride, but that most certainly did not mean he understood.

John glanced quickly back at Sherlock, who was carefully scrutinizing a word search puzzle. "Mycroft was his dealer." The words came out quietly, in a tumble.

"What?"

"Mycroft was his dealer." More clearly this time, but still quiet.

"He gave his brother drugs? That's weird. It always seemed like he was trying to get him clean."

"No, not just gave him drugs. _The_ dealer. The one he called 'the most dangerous man you'll ever meet'. Because he thought he knew what was best for Sherlock no matter the cost."

Lestrade squinted across the room at Sherlock then back to John. He could imagine Sherlock's voice in his car, claiming that, 'The body is just transport for the mind' while looking like he terribly wished that were true. "So Mycroft-?"

"Yes."

"To his own brother?"

"Yes."

"That's…that's disgusting."

"DOT!" shouted Sherlock, suddenly alarmed.

John ducked reflexively in response. Not that he had extensive experience with the word 'dot' as a cue, but reflexive ducking was a good all-purpose reaction to unexpected and potentially perilous stimuli.

By the odd laws of physics, they all saw the bullet hole in the wall behind John moments before they heard the gunshot.


	8. A disarming manner

Mycroft was shut in Sherlock's upstairs so he could work in relative silence. He was talking to the administrative assistant of a minor undersecretary in the Croatian parliament, using a mixture of flattery, confidence, and bland reassurance to convince her to give him contact information for the undersecretary's private residence. It was a confidence game in its essence, primarily designed as a foot-in-the-door so she would be more willing to acquiesce when he made larger requests.

He was in the middle of offering her detached but kindly sympathies regarding her sister-in-law's recent cancer diagnosis when he heard the gunshot.

He apologized to the assistant, claiming that a he had to go attend to a sudden matter of state, and hung up the phone before stepping out into the hallway. He immediately perceived the point of entry in the shattered window pane and the point of collision in the far wall of the sitting room. He could recall the exact display of buildings arrayed across from Sherlock's flat. The angle from entry to collision, two points determined a line. The shattered window pane left some variability in the calculations, but only one building could possibly intersect.

"The red brick building one block south!" he yelled. "Somewhere from the seventh to ninth floors."

As soon as he said the words, Mycroft Holmes regretted them, because Sherlock launched himself to his feet and ran out the door.

* * *

There were four people in Sherlock's flat at the time of the shooting. Of the four, Sherlock was the tallest, though by a narrow margin. Of the four, Sherlock was by coincidence closest to the door. And of the four, Sherlock was most certainly in the best shape: Mycroft was not one for athletics, Greg had been letting his workout routine slide, and John had been allowing himself to limp.

Lestrade and John both grabbed their guns and ran after him.

Mycroft sighed. This was going to end poorly. If they had returned to England, he could have set up a proper perimeter. If Sherlock had come to him for help, they might have captured and neutralized Moran before surgical brain damage would have even been considered.

Mycroft put on his shoes and walked out the door.

* * *

In a perfect world, they would have planned this carefully and one of them would have stayed back with Sherlock, keeping an eye on him and keeping him out of the line of fire. Mycroft was the obvious choice for babysitter, except John was opposed to leaving Sherlock alone with his brother and, having learned about some of Mycroft's less savory behaviors, Greg wasn't wild about the idea either. John could have stayed back with Sherlock, particularly since his leg was giving him trouble these days. Or Greg could have stayed back. With Sherlock alive, it wasn't impossible that he might get his job back one day, in which case, it would probably be a bad idea for him to have witnessed a vigilante execution.

But they hadn't actually discussed that, hadn't actually made any plans, so Sherlock was running ahead of the others, determined to find the man who was trying to hurt John Watson.

The building was mostly abandoned. There was an upholstery workshop on the ground floor, though it didn't look as though any orders had been processed recently. The floors above had been involved in textile manufacturing originally, and had more recently been rented out as storage space for files and office furniture.

The elevator was out of order, so Sherlock charged up the stairs, shouting Moran's name. "No, no, no! We agreed! You stay away from John-0!"

Moran's voice echoed down the stairwell. "You broke your end of the bargain!"

"No." Sherlock shook his head. He could hear the doors pounding open again on the ground floor. "No, no, no. I got stupid. I didn't look for John."

"But you got to see him anyways. I don't get to see my Jim anymore."

Sherlock made it to the eighth floor landing. The voice was louder, clearer. The eighth floor was one open room, with rows of uneven filing cabinets lining the west end of the room and piles of empty desks filling the rest. Moran was perched by an open window. A wind gauge balanced from the sill.

Sherlock began to walk across the room. "Moriarty was…"

"You don't say his name!" cried Moran. "You didn't know him! He was a genius, a real genius, not like you."

"I'm not a genius," said Sherlock. "I'm stupid. I've got magnets."

"Jim would've never let himself be humiliated like that. He had pride. He had dignity." Moran scoffed. "Now if you'll excuse me, you took something I loved, now I'm gonna take something you love." And he slung his rifle over his shoulder and made for the south staircase.

* * *

Lestrade made it to the eighth floor no more than a minute after Sherlock. John and Mycroft covered the south staircase, knowing they would both be slower than him.

This was Moran. Clearly, obviously, no doubt. He matched the picture, he was carrying a sniper rifle. A…vulnerable person was in danger. This would be a clean kill; he would have no trouble justifying it to the law or to himself.

The problem was getting a good shot; the room was so cluttered. He sidled slowly, back to the wall, trying to find a clear vantage point. But then Moran started to run. He had to take whatever shot he could get. He lined up, exhaled, pulled the trigger.

Left calf. Better than nothing.

* * *

Mycroft was not an athletic man. He had never had any particular interest in sport, and he had never bothered to develop his strength or endurance. John Watson was just the opposite – he had been an athlete since childhood, then a soldier, and then however one wished to describe his adventure/law enforcement career with Sherlock Holmes. However, a funny thing happens when a man spends months favoring his right leg, even if the limp is psychosomatic in origin. Limping forces the legs to move unnaturally, forces tendons and ligaments to stretch and twist in ways they would rather not. That is to say, months of limp disables the leg.

Mycroft was a full flight of stairs ahead of John.

They had made their way to the sixth and fifth floors respectively when they heard a gunshot and Moran emerged into the stairwell, launching himself over the side rail and down through the thin middle space. He skidded his way down two flights before tumbling backwards onto the staircase. He immediately, reflexively, leveled his rifle. "Goodbye," he said, "John Watson."

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was, at his heart, a man of words and not a man of action. He often worked to prevent tragedies, but rarely to intervene when they occurred. But this was John, who was obviously quite necessary for Sherlock's happiness, who was obviously quite necessary for Sherlock's safety, who was obviously quite necessary for Sherlock's life.

Mycroft Holmes was not a soldier. He had basic training in firearms and the most rudimentary self-defense. He thought, not fought, his way out of problems. As any serviceman will tell you, thinking is fine as far as it goes, but it's no substitute for instinct. The moment a gun is raised, instinct has to take over; there isn't time for anything else.

Mycroft Holmes does not have well-developed martial instincts.

* * *

John raced up the south staircase, furious with himself for falling behind Mycroft. _Mycroft!_ He couldn't even keep up with Mycroft, when Sherlock's life was in danger!

A shot rang out and John's heart leapt to his throat.

Please, god, don't let him be dead. I can't lose him when I've just found him again.

Then the figure tumbled down the stairs. Moran, had to be Moran, and he was bleeding copiously. Moran was shot, not Sherlock. Oh, god, thank god.

Then Moran aimed the gun at John.

John had known that there was an assassin trying to kill him ever since Molly had accosted him outside his apartment, ever since Mycroft showed him Moran's photograph, ever since Sherlock had cringed and whimpered in fear when the subject was broached. John had known that, but there's knowing, and there's _knowing_.

Please, god, let me live.

Mycroft launched down the stairs from the sixth floor landing and knocked Moran- No, he didn't grab Moran. That would have been the smart thing to do, the proper instinct. Mycroft reached out for the gun, grabbing the barrel with his left and twisting in front of it with his right.

The force of it, the shock, Moran fired.

Movies and television often portray gunshot wounds as simple punctures, like pinpricks that happen to be unusually deep, which is roughly true for certain types of bullets in certain types of guns, particularly if one is shooting at a homogenous solid mass. But the human body is not homogenous, and Moran's rifle fired high-caliber hollow-point ammunition.

Very little remained of Mycroft's right arm below the elbow. There was a long sinew of flesh and bone on the ventral side, leading to the thumb and a portion of the first finger. Much of the wrist remained, but attached to nothing. The palm was in tatters.

Mycroft screamed, literally screamed, breaths coming in gasps and spasms. He was almost immediately pale and sweaty, his body at a loss with how to manage such drastic damage.

Blood was pumping from the base of the wound, not seeping but spurting in rapid fits and starts. Arterial flow, and a lot of it.

John acted on instinct. He had a peripheral awareness of Lestrade charging down the stairs and handcuffing Moran. He took off his belt and looped it around Mycroft's arm. Many civilians misunderstood tourniquets. They thought that a tourniquet was just a clever way that people in movies stopped victim bleeding, but in reality, tourniquet was an admission that the arm or the leg was to be sacrificed. A trade. A limb for a life.

John could see in Mycroft's panicked expression that he understood what the tourniquet meant. "No, no, I need it. I can't, I have to-"

"Shut up and let me save your life." John pulled hard on the belt – that was another thing civilians rarely understood, just how tight tourniquets had to be. He could see Mycroft gritting his teeth; it was quite possible a nerve was being compressed or ground against a bone. But he finally got the thing tight enough and secured it in place. The arterial bleeding was slowed. Not stopped, but slowed enough that Mycroft would probably survive until a surgeon could repair things properly.

John looked up the stairwell. Sherlock was looking down on them from the eighth floor, his expression unreadable across the distance.

Mycroft was trying to stand.

"Wait a minute, mate," said John, army camaraderie kicking in compulsively. "We're going to get you to a hospital. You're going to be all right."

Mycroft drew his pistol. He had gotten a gun upon coming to America, at the same time Greg and John had. He pointed it at Moran's seething form, aiming as best he could despite using his left hand and wavering from the blood loss.

He fired. The shot went wide and embedded in the wall. He didn't really know how to shoot, not the deep sort of muscle memory that would allow him to function while approaching hypovolemic shock. "Grab his head," breathed Mycroft. "Hold up his head."

Lestrade did as he was asked.

Mycroft punched the gun forward with as much force as his off hand could generate, forcing it into Moran's mouth. Greg stepped to the side and Mycroft fired again.

* * *

They told the hospital it was a shooting accident, at a gun club. It wasn't a particularly good lie.

Sherlock hadn't said a word since they left the warehouse, but he unreservedly leaned against John whenever he could.

Mycroft lay on the stretcher. His remaining fingers twitched and trembled wildly as dying nerves cried out for feedback that would never come.


	9. A human arm weighs eight pounds

The hospital waiting room was not as antiseptic as it ought to be. The thin, lemon scent that signified massive over-application of antimicrobial agents was curiously absent and in its place were a number of stale bodily smells. On the other hand, hand washing stations were positioned every few meters and John could see the nurses using them quite regularly. Maybe the place was good on the whole, but the janitorial staff was just lazy? Not worth worrying about. Amputations were surprisingly straightforward procedures, especially when the rest of the body was relatively intact.

Sherlock was slowly turning the pages of a National Geographic, clearly paying it much attention. He spent just as much time on car advertisements as he did on nature photos.

"Sherlock," said John, "Lestrade said he heard you talking to Moran, talking about the deal you made."

"Doesn't matter now."

"He said it sounded like you agreed to put those magnets in your head to keep me alive."

"Two things." Sherlock stopped turning pages.

"Two…things?"

"Because Moran can't see his Moriarty _and_ he's dead. That's two things. So I had to trade two things."

"Your intelligence, and getting to see me."

Sherlock nodded.

"But Moran's dead now, really dead. So do you want to stay the way you are or change back? Do you want to be Sherlock-1 or Sherlock-2?"

Sherlock began turning pages again. After a moment, he said, "You're in love with Sherlock-1."

"Well, don't decide on that. I'll be your friend either way."

"You miss Sherlock-1."

"It's not about me, Sherlock. You pick what you want. Are you happier like this? Is this what you want in life?"

"I don't understand the question."

John put his arm around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock had been leaning against him most of the time they had been sitting in the emergency room anyway. "You can be either Sherlock-1 or Sherlock-2." He tried again. "What do you want?"

"I want a pet dog."

* * *

Bryan Salander was a successful MP with a sham marriage. It was an open secret, at least among those working in government – he was never quite sure whether his constituents really missed the obvious signs or chose to let them pass with a wink and a nod. It helped that he genuinely loved his wife and his step-daughters. He really did love her, but as a sister, as a friend. Even his political opponents had somehow arrived at a gentleman's agreement that the matter was off limits.

The result of all of this was that he was able to have quite regular contact with his lover, his lover who had been so miserable, so distant since his brother's tragic death.

He was shocked when he received word from Anthea (she had been Dolores when Salander first met her) that Mycroft had been shot, and would survive, but would lose his right arm. He certainly wasn't shocked that such damage had occurred, though in reality he had no idea how rare comparable injuries were. No, he was shocked that Mycroft had been the one in the line of fire, knowing well his lover's preference to avoid center stage, to avoid anything active at all. He remembered the hour-long bargaining session that had been required to convince Mycroft to come fishing with him once, even though fishing was really just more sitting and more talking (two of Mycroft's favorite activities) that happened to occur in proximity to fish!

Anthea told him that Mycroft was expected to be well enough to travel within the week. She would contact him with the name and visiting hours of the rehabilitation center once Mycroft returned to England.

The message was clear: Don't come to America. Wait for me to come to you.

* * *

They met up with Mycroft again in the recovery room.

"You in much pain, mate?" asked Greg.

Mycroft shook his head. "I am apparently to be given regular and copious doses of analgesics for the next several days. I can't feel much."

Sherlock stood at Mycroft's right side, touching the space where his arm should have been.

"You're going back to Britain today," said Mycroft. "I've made all the arrangements. Your flight leaves in four hours."

John furrowed his brow, but held his tongue.

"You really ready to fly home?" asked Greg. "Don't they want to keep you for observation?"

"I have to meet with a few American contacts to ensure there are no…legal ramifications to our activities today. I'll return when both matters are settled." He yawned and his eyes fluttered, still clearly under the influence of the anesthesia. "It's easiest if I don't have to justify your presence."

"Arm," said Sherlock, still running his fingers over the hospital blanket. "Hand. Wasn't supposed to see."

"Lestrade," said Mycroft, "will you please take my brother into the hallway. I would like a moment with Dr. Watson."

"C'mon, Sherlock. Let's go see what kind of sodas they have in the machine." Greg beckoned, and Sherlock followed after, stopping briefly to look back at his brother and Watson. "Come on, you'll see John again in a minute."

Once they were gone, Mycroft spoke. "We still have not resolved the issue of how to handle my brother's newfound disability."

"Look," said John, "I'm grateful for what you did, I really am, but that doesn't mean I've forgiven-"

"Please, allow me to speak. I already know what you think of me. More importantly, I know what you think of Sherlock, of _this_ Sherlock. You don't like him."

"That's not true, I-"

"Of course it's true. It's obvious to anyone remotely observant. You wince when he speaks. You look ill when he amuses himself with infantile pastimes. You don't actually like him, you simply believe it is your duty to do so. Even in his present state, he will eventually discern the difference between burden and devotion."

John opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words occurred to him. This was not what he had expected Mycroft to say. And it wasn't entirely false. Sherlock-2 was a different man and a constant reminder of everything John had lost. He opened his mouth again, but he still had nothing to say.

"Fix him, John."

"Why are you saying this? What's your secret plan this time?"

For a moment, Mycroft looked very distant. Then, he yawned and put on his most placid smile. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was delighted with the new Sherlock.

John had provided her with an abridged version of the events since Sherlock's fall from the hospital roof. She hardly seemed bothered by the deceit and the assassins, focusing instead on the opportunity to distribute homemade scones (for which Sherlock actually said thank you!) and to house a tenant who would not shoot holes into her walls.

Molly was pleasant enough, but standoffish. Before hurrying away, she explained to John, "It can't have been a secret that I rather fancied him. And now, it's…well, it's not appropriate, is it?"

It turned out that Lestrade had not been fired from his bartending position. Or rather, that he had been fired and quickly rehired, when his replacement was caught selling ecstasy during her shift. One Tuesday, he brought his guitar with him, hoping that one of the dishwashers could give him a few pointers when business was slow. Turned out, the combination of black turtlenecks, broody looks punctuated by friendly winks, and an untouched acoustic guitar merited more than just solid tipping; he began collecting phone numbers and hotel keys.

And he did actually get himself some new wheels, but no, he didn't waste all his money on a sports car, thank you very much. He got a motorbike. It was a very good deal because he got it from a police auction, and with petrol prices being so high, it really was a very sensible investment. Really.

There were still things to be unhappy about, of course. Even if Sherlock's being alive meant he could somehow be exonerated and even if that could somehow lead to Lestrade getting his job back, it was going to be a long process. And even if his marriage hadn't been perfect, breaking up still felt awful. That being said, he had a motorbike, a job that let him sleep until noon, and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of anonymous sex partners. He would muddle through somehow.

* * *

John and Sherlock moved back into the flat at Baker Street and although John stored his clothes and his personal belongings upstairs, they made no pretense about sleeping separately. Sherlock wanted to be near him and John could hardly deny that the sentiment was mutual.

They got a dog. Not one of the ones from Pittsburgh, because it turned out that importing a dog, particularly a shelter mutt, was an unusually difficult and complicated business.

When John returned from the London animal shelter, Sherlock knelt on the floor and embraced their new pet with a cry of, "John-7!"

John smiled. "Well, the lady at the clinic said his name is Gladstone, but I guess you can call him whatever you like."

Gladstone lay between them when they watched telly, their hands sandwiched against his lumpy hide, Sherlock alternating absently between petting the dog and petting John.

It was when they were in bed together, lying close, touching arms and faces, that John admitted he was putting the surgery off. He had arranged for an operating theater, for machines and anesthesia, and nurses. He had tolerated interacting with Mycroft – god, it was bloody awkward owing your life to someone you hated! – long enough to ensure that the strange nature of the operation would never become a public matter. He had even discussed the idea with Sherlock, who agreed to it readily, though John suspected Sherlock would agree to most anything he suggested. But he hadn't set a date.

Every time he delayed the surgery, his reasons seemed perfectly valid. Mycroft's still in intensive care. Sherlock's just getting reacclimated to London. There was a retrospective about Sherlock in the paper; best to wait until he's out of the public eye again. It all seemed quite sensible on the surface, but in sum, he was obviously delaying. Was he just being oppositional? Mycroft said leave the magnets in, so John demanded to take them out, but then Mycroft said to remove the magnets, so John stubbornly left them in. Perhaps. Maybe he liked the contact, the earnestness, the closeness that he would never have from Sherlock-1, especially as John had come very, very slowly to the realization that he might one day want to have a romantic relationship with Sherlock.

* * *

"Do you mind if I turn the lights off, Sherlock?"

"They fix me tomorrow."

"No, you're not broken. It's just, it's Sherlock-1's turn."

"Can I kiss you now?" Sherlock had been studious about keeping his lips to himself since their return to England.

John sighed. He had been struck a few days ago with an idea, a very bad idea, but one he was considering nonetheless. When he had first heard of Sherlock's relationship with Victor Trevor, he had been pleased, oddly jealous but pleased, at the thought that Sherlock had gotten to enjoy sex at least once before he died. But then it had turned out that things hadn't been like that with Trevor, and that Sherlock's only sexual experience had been coercive and deviant. Whatever it was in Sherlock, whatever intensity or genius that kept him from being close to people, the TMS devices had clearly blocked it as well.

It would be a much simpler decision if John didn't feel so excited by the idea, if he wasn't left to wonder whether this was just the roundabout way his mind was justifying taking advantage of Sherlock-2. But John wasn't one for indecision. This was what Sherlock-2 wanted. This was what John wanted. There were no tricks. There was no dishonesty, no intimidation. And if it made things awkward with Sherlock-1, well, then…for fuck's sake, the man faked his own death! It wasn't exactly going to be straightforward regardless.

Sherlock interpreted John's sigh as frustration. "Sorry."

"No, don't." John shook his head. "Look, I want to do something for you." He licked his lips because his mouth had gone quite dry all of a sudden. "And for me," he added for honesty's sake. "If it bothers you, if you don't like it, just say 'stop' and that will be okay. I won't be angry."

"Just say 'stop'," repeated Sherlock, nodding.

John licked his lips again. Why was his mouth so dry? He leaned forward and he was suddenly very aware of his eyes. Should they be open or shut? What did he normally do? Should he look right at Sherlock, look him in the eye or-?

And then they were kissing. It was very much like kissing a woman, except Sherlock's chin and his cheeks weren't so smooth, but his lips were soft and the stubble felt, it felt good. It felt like Sherlock.

John broke off. Sherlock was grinning hugely, the same lucky smile he had worn when they were in Pittsburgh. John leaned in to kiss him again, this time bringing their bodies together and running his hands up and down Sherlock's back and his sides. When Sherlock made a pleased whimper, John reached down and felt his arse. It was different than he expected, though he couldn't say how. It stirred in John a feeling of possessiveness that often came over him during sex, a sense he wanted to keep and collect certain things, though he couldn't for the life of him explain exactly how that would work.

There was something pressing against John's thigh – Sherlock was quite erect. John was as well, almost blindingly so, but he tried to keep his body turned so his cock wasn't pressed against Sherlock. John moved his hand up from Sherlock's arse to the waistband of his pants and felt the skin underneath.

"Is this okay? Do you want to stop?"

"No, nope, very okay." Sherlock reached down and removed his underwear, kicking it to the foot of the bed.

John wriggled further down the bed. He had plenty of reasons to be nervous, not the least of which was the fact he had never gotten this close to a penis other than his own, excluding medically necessary examinations, and this situation felt quite different from that. Sherlock's cock was a bit shorter and thinner than John's, but the tip was wet and he wondered briefly if Sherlock had ever bothered to dye his pubic hair as well. Probably not.

This wasn't all that complicated, really. He had seen it done dozens of times, maybe hundreds. He knew the makings of a good blow job, knew what he liked. It stood to reason that at least some of those themes would be universal. He wrapped a hand around the base of Sherlock's cock. It was warm and firm and John felt that possessive urge again, like he wanted to own it. He ran his hand slowly up and down, using his thumb to massage the point where the head met the underside. It didn't really feel like wanking himself, and it didn't really feel like going down on a woman, but it was pleasant and it was exciting, and his own dick was making its needs known. John reached down with his other hand and ran his fingers over Sherlock's sac.

Sherlock purred. "I like this."

"Wait until you see what comes next," said John, surprised that he was able to sound relaxed and flirty. Now his mouth wasn't dry in the slightest and he found himself really wanting to be closer to Sherlock, to see what sorts of sounds he could draw out of the man. He flicked the tip of his tongue across the head of Sherlock's cock, satisfied and – yes – aroused when Sherlock moaned. And then it was as though sucking cock was the most natural thing in the world. Why shouldn't it be? He'd seen it done quite often enough.

He led with his tongue and brought his lips further and further down along the length, moving back and forth in time with his fist pumping along the base. Sherlock was making little whimpering noises and running his fingers through John's hair, his legs twitching and tightening. He came with a shout, unrestrainedly thrusting into John's mouth. John gagged a little, but he swallowed. The taste wasn't bad.

John crept back up the bed, and guided Sherlock to curl up next to him. He kissed Sherlock's forehead and thanked him, though he wasn't quite sure why.

"I feel good," said Sherlock, in a floating sort of voice, with emphasis on the last word.

"I'll bet you do." John was thankfully quite familiar with post-oral sex euphoria.

Sherlock rested his hand on the outline of John's erection through his boxer shorts. "I do you now."

"No." John took Sherlock's hand and held it in both of his. "You have your surgery tomorrow. If you really want to, you'll want to after that."

Sherlock yawned, another symptom of recent orgasm. "Okay," he said simply. "Good night, John."

* * *

"I brought you your post," said Bryan, having taken care to approach Mycroft on the left side.

"You just want me to open the letter from the German economic minister."

"Quite right, but you did also receive a letter from one 'Christopher Hauser'."

"Would you open it for me please?" It was possible to open a letter with one hand, but Mycroft hadn't yet mastered the technique and was embarrassed by the way he tore at the envelope.

"Another greeting card from your brother."

"More get-well-soon wishes, I suppose? Seems a rather inappropriate sentiment under the circumstances. Hardly his fault, though. Dr. Watson's been rather slow to restore him to his senses." Mycroft kept very few secrets from Bryan, a rule which applied to his brother's exploits as much as it did to anything else.

"No, it's a card for congratulating someone." Bryan sounded puzzled, then disappointed. "Oh," he said, "take a look at the inside."

Mycroft did, and he smiled. It appeared that John had restored his brother to his full capacities after all.

The interior of the card read, in Sherlock's spindly printing, " _Congratulations on successfully losing eight pounds – SH._ "

* * *

Sherlock's cognitive state didn't return immediately to its former glory, but the shift was frighteningly quick. When he woke up after the surgery, he looked more alert, more intense than he had in weeks despite the lingering effects of the anesthesia. After four hours, he told one of the shift nurses that her son was obviously stealing money from her, and after four days, he was pacing around the apartment demanding a case and drawing increasingly improbable conclusions about passerby.

"What makes you so sure he used to be a veterinary dentist?" asked John.

"Isn't it obvious?"

John sighed affectionately. "Sure, whatever you say." He walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on to boil. "You want tea?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember being the other Sherlock?"

"Of course I remember. I remember what I perceived. Unfortunately, that idiot perceived very little."

"Sherlock, you can't call him an idiot."

"Why not? I was clearly trapped in a cage of unimaginable stupidity. Dumber, even, than Anderson. I don't know how I found the will to live."

"Okay, first of all, you can't call mentally retarded people stupid. It's just…you can't, okay? I don't care if it makes sense or not, it's the rule. And second of all, you seemed pretty happy the way you were."

"No, I wasn't."

"Right, well…whatever." John thought back to what had been worrying him. "So you don't remember much?" John stood again to get the tea.

"I remember the fellatio, if that's what you're asking."

John didn't drop the kettle, but it was a near thing. "Jesus, Sherlock, you can't just…" He sighed again. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're not dead and I was real angry you made me think you were, but then I couldn't yell at you, because you were retarded, but you're not retarded now, so-"

"Thank god."

They sipped their tea in silence, broken only when Gladstone let out a yip for attention. John absently scratched him behind the ears.

"For what it's worth, John," said Sherlock, "I'm also," he tipped his head to the side and for a brief moment looked directly at John, as if memorizing every detail, every feature, looking for all the world like a thirsty man staring at water. "I'm also glad you're not dead."


End file.
